By the third missed ferry and the second lost backpack, the boys had stopped pretending this was going to be a “luxury island getaway.”
Ethan had packed six matching swim trunks for the trip — tasteful navy stripes, tropical prints, even one pair with tiny anchors on them. But somewhere between Bangkok, a suspicious speedboat transfer, and a hostel with very relaxed security standards, his luggage vanished into the universe.
The only thing left in the beach town shop that fit him was a blazing red Speedo hanging sadly beside snorkel masks and novelty postcards.
“Absolutely not,” he’d said.
“Absolutely yes,” said Marcus, already paying for it.
So now, while his friends posed like they were starring in a travel magazine, Ethan stood knee-deep in the surf wearing the world’s most aggressively confident swimsuit, attracting the attention of every tourist within a hundred metres.
Oddly enough, by day three he had become completely unstoppable.
Free drinks. Better tan lines. Two marriage proposals from Swedish backpackers.
The others eventually admitted it:
The red Speedo wasn’t a disaster.