Page 11 of Can't Kiss the Chef

“You know I always took it as a good sign that Byron Bay is your favorite place in the world.”

I couldn’t tell you the amount of nights she spent gushing about the little beach town. She would always talk about how she learned to live life at a slow place there. That life is about more than what you do for a job. That we should work to live, not live to work.

Her laugh slowly bubbles out at my confession.

“I’m telling you the truth.” I slur.

“Well, aren’t you being a little conceited?” she asks while her hand runs down Mia’s back.

I turn to face her too quickly, and that, combined with the mix of different alcohols setting in my stomach, sends my world spinning. When I nearly fall off the bench, she takes Mia’s leash and stands up, offering me her hand.

“I think it’s time for bed.”

My drunk ass thinks I am going to get lucky. When we get inside, the party has died down. Only a few close friends remain. Lola takes me to my room, and while she gets my dog settled in her bed, I strip down to my boxers and lay under my own covers.

Lola laughs when she sees me fighting sleep and patting the side of the bed she used to sleep on.

“It’s ready for you. We both missed you.”

She laughs, but I swear there is a sadness in the way she looks at me, like she misses me too, and it’s not my drunk brain playing tricks on me.

She lays her hand on mine, and I flip my palm up and interlace our fingers. She runs her thumb over my hand, and the motion rocks me to sleep. Right before I fall asleep, I hear her say, “I miss you too.”

At least that’s what I tell myself when I wake up alone for the third morning in a row. My entire plan of having a no-strings-attached senior year is thrown out the window.

Lola misses me.

4

Lola

I keep with my annual tradition of getting a new tattoo the Sunday before classes start to signify the start of another school year. This one will be the last one in a traditional school setting.

The familiar buzzing of tattoo guns and bright drawings by Lucky’s Tattoos employees greets me, making me feel at home. Cora is behind the industrial looking desk waiting for me. She was an apprentice when I first started coming to Lucky’s freshman year. Newly eighteen and deciding to forgo college to start her career as a tattoo artist. It’s been incredible to watch her go from tattooing grapefruits to becoming one of the shop’s most sought-after artists.

“Hey, Lola!” she squeals, as she runs around the desk and wraps me in a hug.

I pull away from the girl who has become a close friend and rake my eyes down to see what she is wearing today. A pink floral maxi dress with strappy sandals, and still she is a girl my parents wouldn’t approve of me being friends with just because of her tattoos. If they got to know her, they would learn that in her free time, she volunteers at a rec center for individuals with developmental disabilities and crochets hats for premature babies in the NICU.

“Not overly girly today,” I joke. Cora might be covered in tattoos, but she is as girly as they come. I’ve gone out with her in the winter when her left arm sleeve is covered, and people genuinely think that she is lying about her job. Their faces all drop when she pulls out her phone and shows them her Instagram page, which has nearly fifty thousand followers.

I place my phone screen up on the tray next to her station. The picture I took this summer of a penguin enjoying the sun in the Galapagos is pulled up.

“Can you use this as inspiration for a stamp?”

“Let me see what I can do.” She raises her eyebrows and I can see her wheels turning, meaning I’m absolutely going to love what she draws up.

“Give me thirty minutes to get this all sketched for you. This one is going to be a good one, I can feel it.”

“I’m going to grab a coffee from next door. Can I get you anything?”

“Oh my gosh, yes! If they have those blueberry scones, will you get me one?”

I nod, secretly judging Cora because I know that I make a better scone than Expresso Yourself. The name of our local coffee shop is tacky but they make a mean latte.

The shop is right next door, so once I put my order in, I still have twenty more minutes to kill so I pull out my phone and call my Nonno and Nonna. My Nonna answers the phone my grandparents share after the second ring. Even though she has lived in the United States for sixty years, her Italian accent is still thick, and hearing it feels more like home than any physical place has.

“Lola! Why haven’t you called?” The desperate tone in her voice makes it sound like I haven’t talked to her in months, but I saw her Thursday afternoon when she cooked Oliver a lunch big enough to feed all seven of her children and twenty-five of her grandkids.

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