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Everything about it. Obsessed?
Maybe. After the restaurant closed last night, I should have been packing, but instead an idea popped into my head and everything else was forgotten.
That thought turned into the combination of goat cheese and beets, lamb and a Greek spice mix of my own made from oregano, basil, dill and a few other spices, all wrapped in a phyllo-dough crust with a balsamic honey reduction glaze on top.
By 3 am I had the third and final version perfected, and it will be on the menu when I get back from my trip.
“Don’t have that baby before I get back.” I lean forward and give Natalie the best hug possible over the back of the seat, then land a soft punch into Tor’s shoulder. “Try not to be too much of an asshole to my staff while I’m gone. If I come back to find they’ve all quit, I’m going to kick your ass all over the walk in. Just let Yiorgos run things. Only step in if there’s blood, fire or police involved, then before you do anything, call me. Got it?”
“I’m not calling you. Try to relax,” he says with a look of exasperation.
I huff. “Relax. Sure.”
“Yeah, you, relax.” Tor is using his big bad brother tone now. “Google it. It’s something humans do to enjoy life.”
“You should talk.” Natalie smirks, tipping her head his way, aiming her eyes back to mine. “He worries so much about me and the kids…the only time I see him relax is when I’m giving him—"
I cut her right the fuck off. “Jesus. Okay, I gotta go.” I flap my hand between us in the universal gesture for shut the hell up, then open the back door and slide out as the skycap stands ready and smiling with a cart. I lean into the open door, my fingers curled around the door frame. “You guys need to learn some boundaries.”
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and close the car door, the fall air chilling my exposed legs as I stuff my hands into the pockets of my Hell’s Kitchen hoodie.
I never made it onto the show, but they sent me the sweatshirt as a consolation prize with my rejection letter. Although, I do wish I’d made it, if only to meet Gordon Ramsay.
He’s as close to a crush as I’ve ever had.
“Have fun.” Natalie rolls down her window and waves. “Send pictures. I want to see you in that new bikini on the beach or in a pool relaxing.”
I spin on the toe of my black work clog, waving over my head as the skycap finishes loading my four stuffed suitcases on the cart, and we head toward the terminal doors.
In four hours, I’ll be in San Phillipe, and I’ll probably be the only one of my friends who won’t be relaxing.
Ten hours and one migraine later, I’ve thrown my luggage in my room, changed out of my dirty feeling travel clothes and punched the down button on the elevator. After packing what felt like nearly everything I own, somehow, I managed to bring one pair of shoes outside of my clunky work shoes.
Flip-flops.
And they don’t even match.
My connecting flight was delayed by four hours in a tiny airport with no restaurant or bar and air conditioning that needed some recharging.
When I landed, my phone was full of messages from my friends who went to town for a fabulous dinner at Ethos. Besides being tired and cranky in general, I’m extra salty I missed the meal because that restaurant is one of the reasons we picked San Phillipe for this trip. Instead, I ate corn nuts and beef jerky from the duty-free store before settling into a stuffy cab and heading for the hotel.
I take a deep, shaky breath as the elevator dings and the doors whoosh open. Stepping inside, I’m relieved to see it’s empty, because making small talk or eye contact with a stranger right now seems like an epic feat.
Goosebumps rise on my skin in the cool air conditioning, and I consider going back to my room and snuggling into the huge white robe in the bathroom after a bubble bath and room service.
But, I’m here for some fun and adventure, so I sally forward wearing my new bikini and lacy black cover up. Natalie helped me pick them out after seeing my sad three-year-old chlorine faded boy shorts and swim t-shirt combo.
I’ve never had a bikini before and especially not one that is no more than two sets of varying-size beige triangles, held together with matching shoelaces.
But she said, go big or go home, and something about less is more. She loves her cliches, even when they make almost no sense, but I love her anyway. She’s the sister I never thought I’d have.
My hair is tangled in a messy bun and the bit of makeup I threw on this morning has long worn off. I did manage a new swipe of deodorant along with what should have been a spritz of my favorite perfume before heading out of my room and down the hall.
Instead, the little sprayer on my perfume bottle malfunctioned and delivered a firehose gush that dripped down my neck, soaking into the fabric of my bathing suit and cover-up before I could grab a towel and mop up the excess.
I’m sure I smell like I bathed in the stuff, but there’s no time for a shower, so off I go.
The elevator dings with each floor as the metal box vibrates under my feet and I find myself humming along to the generic instrumental music piping in from the speaker in the ceiling.
