12. Too Busy To Tell
Six Weeks Later
Panting, I force out the words, “I’m so out of shape,” as I struggle to keep pace with Naomi. My burning lungs protest every effort to keep running.
“Not me,” Naomi replies, her voice strained, her face twisted in discomfort.
Our laughs sound like wheezing as it becomes evident that she’s in just as much pain as I am.
It feels like an eternity since I last joined Naomi for our regular Sunday morning run at Blue Ridge Park. Since becoming head chef at Calypso, Sundays are now my only days off. My schedule throughout the rest of the week is jam-packed, juggling the demands of the kitchen with my cooking classes. With graduation just a month away, the pressure is mounting. Additionally, there’s my parents’ podcast. They want me to participate, and despite my tight schedule, I find myself unable to refuse—it’s actually enjoyable. I appreciate the extra time with my parents, even if it is a bit startling to see how freely the empty nesters who lunch discuss their kids’ private lives on air.
Naomi, now visibly struggling to keep pace, smashes her hands against her waist and gasps out, “Power walk?”
Seizing the lifeline, I manage to wheeze out, “Yes.”
Walking is still uncomfortable. My hamstrings scream with tightness, my calves twitch with spasms, and I’m fighting nausea that’s been haunting me since this morning. Before joining Naomi on the track, I stopped by the health food store, bought a ginger shot, and downed it. That gave me some relief. But now the sensation has returned, and with alarming intensity.
“So what’s been going on with you?” Naomi asks, her breath now steadier.
“Work, school, podcast, sleep,” I list, ticking off each item on my fingers as we walk.
Then without missing a beat, she dives into the topic she’s most curious about. “Have you heard from Randy?”
So here’s the thing—I’ve kept the details of my special night with Randy to myself, not even sharing them with Naomi. There was a depth to our connection that evening, a profound intimacy that felt too sacred to immediately share. I wanted to wait and see how our next conversation would unfold when we spoke again.
As time passed, my decision to hold back seems to have been the right call. It has been six weeks, and there’s been nothing but silence from Randy’s end. No calls, no messages—nothing. And tomorrow, it seems, I can see his face again. The Premiere Eats Channel is airing the first episode of the new season of Head Chef Total Domination, and Randy will be on it. The thought of watching him on TV twists my heart a bit. I told myself I could just skip the show and avoid the pain of seeing him while not hearing from him. But who am I kidding? Skipping it isn’t really an option. Despite everything, I know I’ll be watching, clinging to the screen for a glimpse of his handsomeness.
“Nope, haven’t heard a peep from him,” I manage to say. The effort of maintaining our brisk pace makes it difficult to converse. “Can we slow down a bit more?”
Naomi immediately adjusts her speed, for which I’m immensely grateful.
She looks at me, her eyebrows knitted with concern. “Are you okay?”
I take a deep breath of the crisp morning air and let it calm my senses slightly. “I am now,” I assure her, even though I’m far from okay.
As Naomi pauses, her gaze lingers on me, growing more scrutinizing. I put on an extra effort to appear unbothered, to seem like everything is normal. But the truth is that something has been off for quite some time now.
“So what’s been happening with you?” I quickly ask in an attempt to redirect the conversation, hoping to shift her focus away from my uncomfortable life.
“Same old, same old,” Naomi says airily. She loops her arm through mine, pulling me closer. “It feels kind of strange that I’m finally graduating from law school, though. It’s been two long, grueling years.”
I’m finding it increasingly difficult to keep down the banana and bran muffin I ate after the ginger shot, but if I’m being honest with myself, this uneasy feeling isn’t new to just this morning. My stomach has felt off for a while now. Perhaps it’s something I ate recently that’s not agreeing with me. Just last Friday, I recall devouring quite a few tuna tartare bites in an attempt to sustain my energy levels while cooking. The realization of how challenging Randy’s job truly is hits me hard. What leaves me puzzled is wondering how he managed to prepare all that food and still find time to get under my skin.
So it’s my nausea that’s keeping me from congratulating her on making it through.
“But I do have best-girlfriend news to share,” she announces.
“Um, okay,” I say, struggling not to vomit all over the park’s nice, clean track.
“Derek has been offered an opportunity to merge with a top law firm in Boston.”
My sudden surprise momentarily relieves my nausea. “What? Are you moving to Boston?” I exclaim, already experiencing the blues that will come if Naomi moves away.
She gently releases her arm from mine, her voice uncertain. “I, we, don’t know yet. We’re weighing the pros and cons.”
Feeling a wave of discomfort, I exhale deeply. “Well, there are more pros than cons,” I start, trying to hide the sadness in my voice. “I don’t want you to leave, but Derek is driven, and so are you. Boston offers the opportunities you’re both looking for. But still, I don’t know what I’ll do here without you.” The sadness tugs at my smile, turning it downward.
She looks at me with a thoughtful expression. “Can I put my lawyer hat on for a moment? I have a case to make that just might bring us both some hope and optimism.” She places a comforting hand on my back.
“I’m all ears,” I say, eager for any insight she has to share.
Naomi takes a deep breath. “You know, we haven’t seen each other in sixteen days, even though we’re in the same town. It’s easy to take our time for granted when we’re so close. If I move, we’ll have to make an effort to see each other. We’ll plan visits and make them count. You’re my best friend, but you’re more my sister, and honestly, I can’t imagine a life without Gina in it.”
Suddenly, a crippling wave of nausea overwhelms me, forcing me to double over and clutch at my knees for support.
“Gina, what’s happening?” Naomi shrieks, her voice thick with worry.
I shut my eyes tight, silently pleading for the discomfort to subside. Please, let this pass, I mentally beg, but the nausea refuses to obey. Gripping my stomach, I desperately scan our surroundings until my gaze locks on a trash can along the track. With sheer determination, I propel myself toward it, fighting to keep everything down until I reach it. When I do, I commence puking my guts out.
Naomi quickly runs to her car and comes back with a bottle of cherry-flavored electrolyte water. “Drink all of this,” she instructs as we settle on the grass, both of us recovering from my ordeal.
“Gina,” she begins, a hint of hesitancy in her voice. “You know I have to ask.”
I frown immediately, anticipating her question. “I’m not pregnant, Naomi. It’s impossible. I had my period after Randy left.”
“And he’s the only person you’ve been with?” she probes further.
“Yes, of course,” I respond, feeling a mix of surprise and annoyance. “If there was anyone else, you’d be the first to know.”
“Not necessarily,” she retorts a bit too swiftly, her voice tinged with a hint of dissatisfaction with me.
“What are you trying to say?” I press.
“I have this feeling that you’re holding back details about you and Randy.”
“What?” I ask, alarmed. Why is she always so spot on?
“You couldn’t stop talking about him before,” she continues. “And now that he’s not around, I’m hearing nothing from you.”
“Maybe now that he’s gone, there’s nothing more to say.”
“Maybe. I just…” She trails off, her expression one of confusion and frustration. “Never mind. Let’s drop it.”
A heavy silence ensues, thick with things left unsaid. Part of me wants to come clean about that last night with Randy, to confirm her suspicions. Yet I find myself hesitating. Why hasn’t he reached out like he promised?
Opting for a safer topic, I say, “I think it’s the tuna tartare puffs I ate too many of while cooking in the kitchen on Friday night.”
Naomi nods, her response brimming with certainty. “That makes sense. Raw fish can be tricky.”
I offer a weak smile in agreement. “I know, right?” But internally, I’m grappling with doubts. The truth is, whatever caused my sickness didn’t taste anything like tuna tartare.