For a second, I’m taken aback, and then I realize he’s having the most appropriate reaction, probably one I should have had years ago.
We both wander into my room and melt rather drunkenly into bed.
I fluff up the comforter and settle, but then Patrick randomly screams out, “Ronis! Fettuccine Alfredo! Shitty meatballs!”
It takes me a minute to figure out what he’s talking about, but then I playfully punch him.
Patrick rolls over and scoops me up with a giggle. “Boston has a famed North End, yes? To rival our less-famous but beloved college Italian restaurant? Shit, I hope Boston shows up.”
“Boston will always show up. There’s no competition.”
I love how he sighs so contentedly against me. So calmly.
He snugs me in tightly.
Our brother-sister vibes are eternal.
And so we dress the fuck up the next night, and he takes me out.
Boston’s Italian scene kills it, of course. And we drown in pillows of gnocchi.
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.
