Page 130 of Every Beautiful Mile

Of all the things I want to say next, the only one that makes sense is nothing.

Fifty

“Penelope, Bella Jenkins here. American Restaurant Magazine.”

It’s the end of September, and I’ve done five consulting jobs when she calls.

“Hey, Bella.” I shift the phone on my shoulders, surprised to hear her voice. “How’s it going?”

“Look, I know it’s late notice, but we had something fall through for our next issue, and a little birdie told me you’re dabbling in consulting. Would you be game for a last-minute piece to fill the spot? Just a picture and a short article on your business if you’re interested.”

I almost drop the phone. I’ve barely gotten my feet wet. My website isn’t done, and the ink is barely dry on the business cards for Twist of Lime Consulting. In no way am I prepared for something as big as this.

“Bella, I’m flattered, but it’s so new. Not that I wouldn’t love it, it’s just that I feel like a little bit of a fraud—I haven’t even proven I can do this yet, let alone deserve an article in your magazine.” I pick at the skin around my thumb.

“Are you kidding me?” I hear keys clicking on a keyboard. “You’ve won most fun restaurant—twice! You’ve proven yourself. And we can spin it as one of those taking the leap into uncharted territories type stories if you’re so worried about it. Plus, the issue is filled with men. We need a woman. Can I send a photographer down next week?”

My veins feel like they’ve been pumped full of champagne as a fizzy feeling flows through me.

When I hear myself say, “Let’s do it!” I can’t help but smile.

“Perfect. I’ll email you the details.”

“Hey, Bella?”

“Yeah?”

“How did you find out about this?”

“You tagged the magazine in one of your social media posts—it got our attention.”

Marin.

“Great, thanks again.”

Shock is the only word I can use to describe how I feel as I end the call. Telling my family I am trying this is one thing, but telling the entire industry is completely different. Bile rises in my throat at the thought of it, but there is no time for puking.

Work now, puke later.

The phone call lights a fire of urgency under me I haven’t had before. I’m not about to have my name blasted out only to not be able to deliver. Even if I fail, I’m hellbent on failing looking like I know what I’m doing.

By the middle of October, I’m only working at the Crow’s Nest once a week.

I’ve fine-tuned the packages listed on my website. They range from single-day training with the bar staff to three-day options where I observe the operations for a night before fixing what’s broken and changing the menu. The largest package lasts for three months where I visit the bar several times over that period and fine-tune every aspect of the operations with the owner.

A man in Miami who gets my name from a friend of a friend of my dad books me for the entire month of November for his bars across southern Florida.

It’s surreal.

When I lay in bed most nights, I feel like I’ve spent the days skydiving, sleeping with a dose of adrenaline that I never seem to shake.

I imagine Travis would have been proud of me for taking the risk if he’d known that this idea was lurking inside of me, but when I’m honest with myself in those moments, it isn’t Travis I long to talk to every night. It’s Ethan.

Since I texted him at the beginning of September, I haven’t heard from him. I don’t admit to myself the number of times that the buzz of a new message makes my heart skip a beat at the possibility it might be from him. I don’t acknowledge that every time the phone rings, I hope it’s his name that flashes across the screen.

I don’t dare let my mind wander to what he’s doing or who he’s doing it with.

On a Saturday morning in late October, when the weather almost resembles fall, I give in and pull out my phone.

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