“Maybe less so them,” says Casey. “I’m not sure how it all works.”

Mae seems to have sensed that things might be winding down here. Aging and slow, she lumbers to Casey’s side and lies beside his chair.

He leans over and scratches behind one ear, runs his finger along her graying muzzle.

“Good luck at the Monsters of Mavericks,” says the writer.

“Thanks, man. I’ll be ready.”

“Some of the contest people up in Half Moon Bay say all the contestants have a chance, but don’t say you’re a contender. Your brother, but not you. Thoughts on that?”

Which hurts Casey’s feelings, on top of his rep as a privileged, semi-talented, money-mad, pretty-boy action doll.

“I hope Brock wins,” he says.

“Instead of you?”

“Heck yeah.”

“When does he find time to surf and train, with all those rescue missions he does—the fires and floods and hurricanes, or taking those vaccines to people who couldn’t leave their homes or tents or encampments?”

“Brock has the energy of ten men,” says Casey. “And doesn’t even train that much for contests,” says Casey. “He’s a total natural.”

Casey thinks of Brock robbing the Wu pirates at gunpoint just days ago. Robbing the pirates back. It’s no wonder that Brock thinks he’s in a good enough place to win at Mavericks. He also thinks he’s invented a new God to replace the old, burnt-out, useless ones. Brock is Brock because he believes: the Breath of Life! Go Dogs! Get off your asses and help! It’s not what the world can do for you.

While I tan my butt for a T&A cover story.

“Thanks for your time, Casey Stonebreaker. Lots of good stuff to work with here. Don’t miss that great billboard right out front.”

When the writer leaves, Casey stays in the director’s chair, posts some pictures of himself and Mae here in the now-empty studio. Dashes off a quick CaseyGram on how he thinks his brother will win the Monsters if they get the waves this year. He gets a lot of responses to that post, most of his followers saying, no, “YOU’RE GOING TO WIN IT!”

He loves his fans. The confidence they bring him. The trust he tries very hard to deserve.

He’s also always liked being an underdog. Makes him feel hyper-depressurized, like nothing can go wrong. Well, in the case of sixty-foot waves, like less can go wrong.

Casey walks outside to a sunset on Sunset, the lessening orange light of LA holding the world in its glow, the boulevard already dark, headlights on.

He stops on his way to the parking garage, looks up at the bottom-lit clouds and the blue-gray sky. Sees himself on a towering digital billboard wearing a collegiate-looking Dream Coast cowl-neck sweater.

Mae pulls at her leash and whines softly.

“Pretty man, isn’t he?” someone asks from just behind his right shoulder.

“Whatever.”

Turns to Bette Wu, in a white linen suit and white pumps, fedora, and purse. Every time he sees her she looks taller, and in this light her skin is perfect and she’s pretty. Wicked pretty, Casey knows. Mae wags her tail and smells her shoes.

“Woah. Not you again.”

“Take a walk?”

“What exactly do you want? You guys aren’t planning to burn down the Barrel while we stand here, are you?”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“That’s what your dad said.”

“He’ll say anything to get a reaction. Inside, he’s an insecure child.”

“He’s a criminal, too.”

Casey keeps abreast of fast-walking Bette, but puts plenty of distance between them. Her perfume is tropical with cinnamon, and fully stoke-worthy. Two big Teslas and a Rivian truck go by so quietly that Casey can hear his flip-flops on the sidewalk.

“Exactly what I want is for you to be able, someday, to trust me, Casey.”

“I’ll never do that.”

“Let me reintroduce myself. I am Bette Elizabeth Wu. My father and mother named me after Bette Davis and Elizabeth Taylor because they love old American movies. I am twenty-seven. I am smart and loyal to my family and my crew and anyone I choose. Such as you. I want you to be my partner. I want us to run the Barrel under King Wu ownership. I want you to talk your wonderful mother into selling to us. Not two million like before. That’s an insult. Now, four million. Four million. And higher salaries for you and Jen and all the employees, from the top down, as my father said. Profit-sharing plans. We want a contemporary redesign. No more surfboards and the endless wave videos that all look the same. No more tikis and lame specialty drinks. Something sleek and elegant, a California-Asia fusion that will define the future. A more creative menu, built around the best sustainable fish and seafood we can get. Farm-to-table California crops. And today’s music! No more ukuleles and pedal steel guitars! Your mother is a great woman and a great restaurateur, but she’s old. No more Beach Boys. No Jan and Dean.”

Casey tries to picture all this, his head swimming with images brought forth by Bette Wu.

“Why not just open your own restaurant?”

“Location. The Barrel sits on the best restaurant location on Coast Highway in Laguna Beach. There is none better, and the Wu family wants to have the best.”

“Would you play Jack Johnson music?”

“Okay, Casey. Sure. For you. Are you leaning into this now?”

“No. Leaning pretty far away.”

“Lots of money for your family. Some control and income from the restaurant.”

“Mom can prove even four million isn’t anywhere near what the Barrel is worth.”

“Four million is lots of money for your family. As a friend and partner, I can show you how to invest your share. I’m good at business and finance. And you wouldn’t have to go out fishing alone for the daily catch. You could retire and surf all day.”

“I like fishing. But us together as partners is totally never going to happen, Bette. You stole the best dog I’ve ever had. You tried to extort money for her life. You tried to steal my mom’s restaurant.”

“You can still play with your hot surf babes.”

“They’re good, honest friends. And I don’t play with them.”

“Maybe you should. Those ones lined up at your bar sure looked ready.”

Casey shrugs.

“I want you to convince Jen to sell. It will be a new foundation for us all.”