“What?” I mumble. “How many likes?”
Patrick’s text also startles me.
Patrick:Seems you’ve caught some attention. I like this for you.
I might like this for me too.
Chapter 2
I’m still pretty staggered every time I get home to this apartment off of Newbury Street in one of Boston’s most esteemed and expensive areas. It might not be without its flaws, but it’s way better than the one I’d lived in after graduating from college, and I don’t need Patrick to show up and fix a million things. While the singular bathroom and bedroom are smaller than I’d like (as in, they are miniscule), the kitchen works for what I need, but it’s the massive living room with its bay windows that sold me on living here. Good thing I’m a food lover and not a full-time cook. And that loving food affords me so much. It’s way better than the apartment I’d had after graduating college.
Megan Madonna is still working in her office nook in my house, and she coughs. “Diana? You’re scheduled to leave for Puerto Rico tomorrow.”
Her words stop me in my tracks.
“That’s tomorrow?”
Damn, I thought the bedroom and sleep were just a few feet away.
“I’ll pack your bag. No worries.”
She’s just the sweetest.
“Go home,” I demand. “You’ve already got too much on your plate. Love you,” I call out as I march into my mini bedroom and stand paralyzed in front of my closet.
“I can take ten minutes to help you pack.” Megan Madonna follows me. “I love you too, you absolute weirdo.”
I sigh and accept her help. There’s a rush of us both rifling through drawers and my little closet, bumping into each other in this little room, and it’s not long before we have me packed and she is released from my madness and out the door. Surprisingly, neither of leaves this experience with bruises.
My head hits my pillow as I call Patrick.
Before he can even say hello, I’m ranting. “This is stupid, yes? A dumb thing I forgot about. Going by myself? Does this sound pathetic?”
“Um, probably? But specifically this time?”
“Probably I should go or probably I should cancel? Do better with answers! Who vacations alone? Maybe it’s empowering though?”
“I don’t know what we’re talking about.”
“Sorry, sorry. I have to go to Puerto Rico and review a hotel and stuff. It’s sponsored. Meaning paid.”
“Youhaveto go to Puerto Rico?” There is a groan-laugh. “Revise that. Yougetto.”
“Beaches, and sun, and lying around are not my thing. I’m a redhead with fair skin and zero tanning ability or interest. I probably need a hat company to sponsor me.”
“Oh, that sounds utterly horrific! I’m sure there won’t be one umbrella in sight, and you’ll burn to a crisp because no one has invented sunscreen. Or hats.”
Patrick’s feigned horror is not lost on me.
I settle a bit. “This hotel does have sister restaurants that I’ve been dying to visit. Not to mention the actually genuine and authentic PR food they’ll be plying me with. I’ve heard their crab is like none other.”
He doesn’t hold back. “Just have some damn fun and relax. Read a book or five. Get out of Boston for a minute.” Before I can object again, he about yells, “Fly away! Do the beach thing!”
After I still don’t reply because I just don’t have words, he softens his voice. “Diana? Embrace this chance. You help everyone else but you. You’ve always done that. You’ve always had to make decisions, find solutions, solve adult problems.”
He’s referencing my family. How I grew up with all the stuff. Riddled with neglect. With super crazy parents. And I don’t want to think about any of that right now.
What I’ve known—or accepted—over the past few years is that while I may be surrounded by people nearly constantly, I don’t actually have many friends. Honestly? Maybe just one.
