While I mayknowso, so many people, the people I hang out with locally? Socialize with? Meet through social media?Notfriends. 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 piña 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. Hisgesticulatingwas 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.”
“Thefirsttime? 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.”
