Chapter 18
Iwake up all cozy, but snuggle back up into the bedding.
My phone has blown up with texts and emails that I don’t want to deal with, and I can’t find a reason to get up.
Really, why would I want to be awake? After another hour of burying my head under the sheets, I lug myself from the bed, but it’s only because there’s a Nespresso and a hungry Top Cat waiting for me.
And because it’s getting dark outside and getting out of bed at this time is humiliating.
Yet darkness shouldn’t show up this early when I am grieving.
Like, maybe after eight p.m., but not after four p.m. Fucking Daylight Saving.
Dave will be back soon, and I can’t let him see me getting out of bed at this obscene time. Especially after last night.
I feed the ungrateful one, make a Nespresso, and then send Megan Madonna footage of the lobster crew from the other night, Dave cooking for me, and the true love for his food truck.
I note that she should for sure focus on the fact that he has fried oysters, which are inexplicably so hard to find.
I post my own pic of me and Anjanette and a separate profile of her as a female lobster woman, plus some shots of the beautiful harbor.
He shows up at our place, and I pretend I’ve been awake for hours. I sit outside with him as he grills on the snowy deck and serves me another million-star dinner, including a mussel risotto from his favorite restaurant in town.
As I’m sucking down more seafood, I curse his new Wi-Fi when my phone starts going nuts. I can’t even look and just throw my phone his way. “Ugh. Can you see what crap has been coming my way? I can’t bear to look.”
David grabs my phone and spends a few minutes looking through all my messages.
“So, it’s all requests for your time. To review high-end places.
Stuff about advertising. That book contract.
A TV thing. Your assistant isn’t sure what to say.
How to reply.” He sighs with some sympathy.
“You don’t want this, do you? That was clear in Puerto Rico. ”
“No,” I admit. “It’s really not fun anymore.
It’s not what it started out to be. Yes, the high-end restaurants are amazing, and I don’t want to stop going to those, but the core of what I do has always been yelling about how special the smaller spots are.
Directing people to the unheard-of restaurants that deliver divine food, unique food.
Food from countries most of us never would even think of visiting. Helping those who deserve to thrive.”
“So, fuck it,” David says. “You hate this, right? I heard you on vacation. Blow it all off. You don’t need the money, right?” He is suddenly so animated and emotional. “Do what you love, not what you’re pressured to do. Enjoy yourself.”
He sounds like Patrick.
“There are so many people who rely on me. It feels impossible to say no.”
“No is a full sentence. You just have to use it. Just give to the people who you want to rely on you.”
He’s right.
“Ready to sleep?” he asks.
I nod. I’m still in zombie mode when I slip into pajamas.
We fall into bed, and while it’s so tempting to lose myself in him, it’s just not the right time to do all the things we want to do. I don’t know how he’s not hating on me for this. His patience is admirable. And sexy. But I’m just not there. I want to be back to my old self.
God, I barely remember her.
I cuddle up hard and tell him, “I may never be me again. The girl you met.”
“And I may never be me again either. The guy you didn’t meet.”
Dave has a story to tell, seemingly one he doesn’t want to share right now. Yet one he maybe wants to let out at some point. I can wait on us, just as he can.
He leaves in the morning, waking me as he kisses me on my shoulder.
Yet again, I don’t get out of bed until the afternoon.
When I finally do, I make my coffee and then open a can of food for my feral cat.
I about cry when I hear a noise from the bathroom.
A first sound. It’s not a cute meow, but it’s some kind of cat sound.
Maybe Top Cat is hating on me less. It’s a win, one I wish Dave were here for.
I text him about this.
Dave replies with nearly every happy emoji.
I smile and then bundle up to sit outside with coffee, look over the ocean, and stew about work.
It’s stupidly cold by the ocean, but the frigid air on my face helps me focus, and the mess of fleece blankets and wraps keeps the rest of me warm.
I like the mix of drinking a steaming beverage while sitting in the cold.
Plus, it reminds me of Patrick and our arctic time with the polar bears.
It’s only after a lot of stewing, but I finally resolve that Dave is right.
Patrick was right. I’m going to be okay with saying no to offers and deals I loathe, so I easily shoot off emails, rejecting everything shitty that’s been offered to me.
My agent will be pissed, but I don’t care.
It’s easy to forget that Barbara works for me, not the other way around.
Intuitively, I know what deals to take and not to take.
Listening to my gut is going to take some getting used to.
I’m very happy to support places and products I genuinely love, and now I’m okay with shunning the shit I hate. And the truth is that the sponsors I love will still be paying me well. I don’t need to be greedy.
I’m still stupefied that my accounts make me a living.
Years ago, when my college posts about how to eat well in crummy cafeterias went nuts and then my later posts with me salivating over local restaurants got insane views, things blew up.
All I wanted to do was to highlight and drive people to local restaurants.
Small markets, mom-and-pop places. I don’t get why I have such a following.
I’m not sexy or styled well. I wear mostly monochromatic loungewear from JAKI, a really messy bun, no makeup.
I’m just me. But I guess just being me works?
After I’m caffeinated and I have wrangled my hair into a disheveled knot—one that looks more like an ’80s side ponytail—I shove my right arm into a parka and drape the rest of it over my shoulder. Fucking cast.
My salvaged new car and I make it into town with no ditch disasters, and I park near the food truck because I need to see him. Dave.
After I get there, I stare sort of helplessly at him for a bit as he does his thing until I finally approach the actual counter.
And while I know it’s offseason, there is still a group of kids gathered around his free offering of children’s books while the adults are ordering food.
These must be locals who love and indulge in all he does.
When I finally reach the counter, my cast must thump against the serving counter more than I intended to because he startles and turns.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
His curious look is so cute. “For what?”
I shrug. “I just blew off people and got my life back. And I thought you’d be closed for the day by now. And so I’m here.”
He shrugs. “I don’t have any set hours. Just go by demand, and today has been busy for some reason.” Dave has got to be exhausted, but he doesn’t show it. “And you’re here now,” he notes with a smile.
“So, you don’t mind if I place an order?”
“I do not. Fire away.” He leans in and stacks two fists on top of each other, then rests his chin on top. “Whatcha want, girl?”
There’s some kind of rom-com moment happening now, but I don’t hate it.
Words don’t seem to come my way, so he helps. “Fried oysters? Maybe some kind of chowder too?”
I nod and smile back.
“You got it.”
I settle into a table, a bit shaky, but very happy, and within seconds, I am nearly accosted by Anjanette.
She is not shy as she falls against the table. “So, what’s going on? There’s a thing happening, yes?”
“A thing?”
“Yes, between you two. Also, your hair. Lordy!” She jumps behind me and works her hands through my hair. “What in the hell? Gorgeous red, lovely curls, and yet this chaos?”
I cringe. “Oh crap. I just talked to Dave. I’d thought I’d gotten it figured out a bit.”
This one-handed shit is for the birds. I’m seriously getting tired of looking bananas.
“You did not,” Anj says factually. “Remind me not to break a bone ’cause you’re a mess.”
She wrestles with my hair. I feel her fingers scrub my scalp as she plays with and shapes my curls, and then a clip of some sort pulls against me. Eventually, she sits back down after doing some more scrunching.
“Okay, now you look like you. How you’re supposed to.”
I laugh. “Which is what?”
“Hot redhead. Curly, long hair pulled up in a ponytail. Someone pulling off high-fashion without looking like an asshole while in our little fishing village.”
It’s clear that I need to make some sort of attempt to manage myself because these makeover interventions are becoming too common. I cannot walk around horrifying people with my hair insanity. Before I can even check myself out, Anjanette is trying to nail me down with gossip confirmation.
“Now, spill. More than Dave has.”
“This town is smaller than I thought, huh?”
“It is,” she says with a mischievous smile.
I don’t know how to reply, but thankfully, the table next to us celebrates loudly when their food is delivered, and she looks away for a minute, enough time for me to compose myself.
“Thanks for fixing my hair,” I say quietly.
Dave’s cook brings out with a platter, and I stuff my face full of oysters, dousing them in tartar sauce.
“God, these are so good. It’s so hard to find fried oysters.” Maybe she’ll see that I want to stop talking.
But she does not. Or based on her knowing smile, she doesn’t care.
“He hasn’t had a thing in ages.” She exuberantly waves a hand between us. “But I like this for him.”
“I also,” I say, pausing, “haven’t had a thing in ages.” I wipe my face with a pile of napkins. “And that’s not a real thing.”
“I disagree.” Anjanette smiles. “I think maybe you’re his Katrina,” she says factually. “You’re the girl he met in Puerto Rico, yes?”