Chapter 3
Begrudgingly, I admit that flying first class is the only way to travel. It’s not a splurge I grant myself often, but I couldn’t refuse my sponsor’s offer. A little luxury here and there is pretty nice.
Puerto Rico is usually hot, humid, maybe rainy—all things my hair and I hate. The weather is actually beautiful when I land, but I’m prepared not to stray too far from the cool ocean winds.
Checking in to the glamorous but welcoming hotel is a breeze. I’m immediately in love with my room. The spa bathroom. The comfy bed with poofy pillows and a comforter that I want to steal and ship home. Not to mention the private pool and the deck, all with an ocean view.
Here I am, so I take a bath and use all the free products and order room service.
Then, while folded into a hotel robe, my body scented with citrus and my hair in a conditioning mask, I devour the shrimp tacos that were sent to my room before soaking in the private patio pool that is just outside my sliding door.
This is insanely luxurious, and I lean my head back and kick my feet while giggling.
God, it feels good to be away from home, the chaos, the crowds.
I love Boston and its people more than anything, but this quiet? I didn’t know I needed it. Not a bad arrival or a bad precursor to a much-needed good sleep.
Puerto Rico is already winning me over.
I always feel embarrassed when I’m offered any trip. Like, why me? And I remind myself that I did start my reviews way, way before this kind of thing became trendy, and I established my following so early. I didn’t have a hook or a catch phrase, nor do I do now.
My feeling guilty about accepting this trip and its perks starts to fade because it seems clear that I’m going to have plenty of great and honest content to post.
Hotel food usually sucks. Most can get away with it because patrons are stuck with it when it’s included in set prices or because it’s just convenient, especially breakfast and brunch.
Obviously, it’s so much easier to roll out of bed and eat what’s there, but it’s usually dry and awful.
And lunch and dinner in the US? Notoriously terrible meals.
These tacos, however? Pretty yummy. And this is just the start.
After I roll into bed in the coziest of bedding, I sleep like I haven’t slept in ages.
I awake in a more positive and open mood, especially after room service brings me delectable bananas foster pancakes with a side of sausage and a mango smoothie.
After taking pics and videos of my food and texting Megan Madonna—I’ll never get over her cool name—about how good things are, I wrap my hair in a knot and prepare to head out to explore this resort.
Apparently, the current is too strong for a beach swim, but the main pool is enticing, so I jump into a bikini, toss on a cover-up, and head down to snag a chair under an umbrella. My lounger faces the ocean, and I have six hundred books on my Kindle that I’m dying to read.
I have only just started reading when my phone begins ringing over and over. Crap. While I send most calls to voicemail, I cannot stop myself from checking the first one. My friend Amy wants help with a reservation at an exclusive restaurant.
It’s tempting to just tell her I can make this happen. Because I can. That’s what I usually do. Maybe it’s something about being away from home, away from my routine, but I’m suddenly pissed off.
It hits me why. Painfully.
She’s not a real friend.
More painfully, I have to face the fact that I don’t have many true friends. Save for my bestie from college, Patrick. He’s maybe my only one.
While I may know so, so many people, the people I hang out with locally? Socialize with? Meet through social media? Not friends. Most just want something from me. To be tagged, invited somewhere, have their picture splayed across my platform.
The relationships with local small restaurant owners and chefs though are different. We have lively conversations and love chatting. We appreciate and respect each other, but we’re not friends. We’re something else great, but not friends on a personal level.
Same with all my fellow food people. I love their accounts, and they love mine. I respect what they are also doing for the community, and while we meet up occasionally, I can’t claim we’re close.
Amy sends me a bunch of sad emojis when I tell her I can’t help.
There’s a small in-ground pool in front of me that faces waves crashing into rocks, and I slink down the steps immediately, swim a few feet, and cross my arms on the tiled ledge, letting my head drop as I watch and hear the saltwater explosions in front of me.
Dammit, I’m so lonely.
I’m not sure I’ve realized that before.
After soaking for twenty minutes and trying to absorb my sad realizations, I return to my shaded spot and make the mistake of checking my phone.
While there’s one nice text from Megan about how well the GoFundMe for Mark is doing, I see three missed calls from my agent, Barbara. Begrudgingly, I call her back.
She is not doing anything to help my attempt at calm vibes.
“Diana, sweetie, you have contracts that need to be signed. These TV deals will move your socials to a new level. The cookbook?”
Our twenty-minute conversation does nothing to make me feel better.
“I don’t know about any of this,” I say while I pace. “This was never about making money or a food show. It doesn’t feel right. Why would I want to promote an energy drink that I don’t even drink or even like? Or write a cookbook with recipes that aren’t mine?”
“As they say, you have to jump while the iron is hot,” she insists. “Who really cares if you don’t love a drink? Just pretend. Honey, this could all go away tomorrow. Take advantage of this interest.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
My infuriated groan as I head back to my chair must be loud, as a kind hotel employee shows up within seconds, and I accept the offer for a pina colada.
“Stupid fucking job that isn’t even really a job,” I holler out to nobody.
After I’ve finished my drink, I storm around the pool for a bit before I notice a guy in a lounge chair a few rows behind me, who is seemingly asleep or passed out, but is definitely frying his skin.
In service to another vacationer, I grab my sunscreen, tiptoe up, and gently mist him with SPF, making sure not to disturb his nap. No one deserves a painful burn.
My book lures me back in, and I curl up with my good read. When I stir, I stroll a bit, and I’m jarred and appalled to see that same guy I just protected from major sun pain now has his hand vigorously going up and down in his lap as he calls out, “Yes! I won!”
What a perv! Masturbating in a public space like this?
This time, I march over and spray this guy again, now vigorously in his face, and wish I had pepper spray instead.
Still, this SPF should hurt.
This tall, shaggy blond bolts up and hollers, “What in the hell? Ow! Oh my God, seriously? Owwww!”
While he’s flailing around, it’s only then I see a lottery ticket in his hand.
Oh crap.
Apparently, he won—and not the lottery I assumed he won. His gesticulating was fortunately a more appropriate celebration.
The least I can do is save the lottery ticket, so I grab it and flag down some servers for water, which we pour over his face as we tackle him back to his lounger.
“Why did you mace me?” he demands when he’s back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! It’s just sunscreen!” I grab another bottle of water. “I assumed you were frying up when I sprayed you the first time.”
“The first time? Is this, like, some habit of yours?”
I wipe a towel over his face. “I was being nice. I didn’t want to wake you with a searing sunburn. The second time, it looked like, you were … you know”—I cough—“sort of … touching yourself. Enthusiastically.”
He squints up at me. “You thought I was—”
“I’m sorry! You were shaking all over and calling out about winning, and there are ladies in small swimsuits all around. It looked weird from my position.”
“I love scratch tickets. Not beating off in public.” He rubs his hands through his wet hair. “I won five hundred dollars. It was exciting. Until it wasn’t.”
The staff left cups of water for him. He grabs another for his eyes and scoots back, and I help him douse his red eyes again.
“It’s not often these pay off, but I guess I’m done with the scratchers.
Damaged for life and whatnot now. And by the way, whatever your job is sounds shitty, and you should tell everyone to fuck off.
Your personal life also sounds shitty.” Blond Boy lies back and covers his eyes with another towel.
“So, you were eavesdropping?”
“No, I was simply awake, and you were loudly broadcasting your life.” He welcomes the pina colada the bartender brings him on the house.
The chair next to him is free, of course, after the chaos, so I sit down. “I’m an asshole.”
“I’m David. Dave. And I’m not an asshole.”
“I’m Diana and normally not an asshole either,” I say weakly. “Seriously, so sorry. Just thought I was catching some kind of sexual predator. I’ve watched too much SVU.”
David jolts up and belts out the sound effect from the show’s theme song. “DUN-DUN!”
“DUN-DUN,” I repeat with a grin. “You’re a fan?”
“Loyal for years.”
Now that he’s sitting upright and after the assault/help I inflicted, I realize I failed to notice that he’s stupidly gorgeous.
Until now. And ripped. And wearing a bathing suit that is cute.
Most guys throw on a suit that is either oversize or too tiny and creepy.
His is the perfect fit. I silently groan.
He’s the kind of superficial guy I’d expect to find here.
Hair like a rock star, shaped around his face.
Shaped, but not too intentionally shaped.
That cut probably cost him over a hundred bucks. Yet he doesn’t strike me as a snob.