Page 18 of Simmer Down
I opt for a white lie instead. “I’m fine. I just had a leg cramp. Sorry to wake you.”
Her hand falls against her chest and she nods, then pads out thedoor. Lemon scurries after her. Mom wishes Lemon good morning in a cheery voice, then there’s a sound of cat food hitting Lemon’s metal dish.
Great. I’m lying to my mom on top of having sex dreams about a guy I don’t even like. And now I’m left with a phantom ache between my legs that I can’t do anything about because I share a home with my mother.
I toss the pillow back on the bed and waddle to the bathroom, wondering how the hell I’m going to get through today’s shift with the star of my hottest sex dream ever working ten feet away from me.
•••
I weave through the maze of stalls at the Aloha Maui Farmer’s Market near Kula. The pathways between the vendor stalls are bustling with shoppers checking out the mix of fresh local produce, prepared meals and snacks, and other random goods.
“Do they have any apple bananas?” Mom asks on the other end of the phone.
“They always have apple bananas.” I hold my phone between my chin and shoulder, gripping the handle of the cloth grocery bag in my other hand.
“Good. Joan wants to make those smoothies at our next mahjong night,” she says.
I tell her I’ll pick up a few bunches of apple bananas and that I scored an entire crate of dragon fruit, which I’ll pick up with the car later.
“Oh, that’s good!” she squeals into the phone. “We can make that frozen dragon fruit puree and serve it this weekend for the customers. Everyone loved it the first day we tried it out. I want to do it with tapioca balls this time though.”
Today we’re pulling double duty. She’s at the condo in Kiheitrying out a new vegetarianpansitrecipe while I’m scouring the farmer’s market for new ingredients. She’s convinced a new recipe will set us apart among competition at the Maui Food Festival. I’m just glad to be out of the house and away from the food truck. When I’m home, I worry about having more vivid sex dreams about Callum, which has happened a couple of times ever since that first night.
I slip my phone back into the pocket of my dress. Even though it’s a Monday, the market is full to the max with locals and tourists. I can’t even make a normal stride with the people around practically pressing up against me. I manage with baby steps, dragging my flip-flops against the ground.
But being in this up-country part of the island is a welcome break from my day-to-day of sweating it out while racing back and forth from Kihei and Big Beach. Kula stretches across the western-facing slopes of Haleakala, Maui’s dormant volcano, which means it’s cooler here most days. I take a slow, silent breath in. I could swear the air feels crisper up here, even though there’s only a couple thousand feet of difference in elevation between here and the shore where I spend most of my time.
Gazing around, I spot Matteo the food blogger. He waves from his nearby booth, where he sells his special brand of essential oils. I offer a head nod, then bump into a blond woman in front of me, her hair in a messy braid.
“Shoot! I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention—”
She twists around to me, squints, then beams. “I know you!”
I focus on her vaguely familiar face, trying to remember where I’ve seen her before.
She squeals before grabbing my elbow and pulling me to the side and away from the crowd. “Nikki DiMarco, right? You and your mom Tiva run that food truck! Oh my God, I love your food! Your whole menu is to die for!”
I let out an embarrassed chuckle. Getting stopped by excited customers has been a common occurrence lately since every food blogger in Maui has posted about the feud between Callum and me. People ask for selfies with Mom or me—sometimes both of us—a handful of times every week. It’s flattering but also unnerving. When we started this food truck, I thought my biggest stress would be cooking good food to earn enough income. I never dreamed I’d have to schmooze and take fan photos.
The bubbly blonde goes on about how the fruit salad is her favorite dessert.
“The vanilla whipped cream makes it so refreshing!” She digs her phone out of her purse and leans back a little, almost like she’s afraid to ask.
“Would you like to take a selfie?” I ask.
Her grin stretches from ear to ear. “Um, duh!”
She wraps one skinny arm around my shoulder, yanking me into a side hug. I grunt at how hard she grips me. She’s much stronger than her tiny frame lets on.
After taking a half dozen selfies on her phone, she squeals again.
“I follow your food truck on social media. I’m your biggest fan!” Holding up her phone to me, she swipes across the screen. “That’s me, @hungrypenelope. I wish I could make it out to your food truck every day for every meal, but then I’d go broke.”
When she laughs, I can’t help but laugh along with her. As awkward as it is to be stopped while going about my daily errands, it’s also flattering. The fact that complete strangers enjoy our food enough to tell us means everything. It makes all this craziness worth it.
I try to match her enthusiasm with a smile. “I love your handle, so funny. And you have such a pretty name.”
She yanks me into another hug that’s so tight I have to hold mybreath. After she releases me, I catch her impressive one-hundred-thousand-plus follower count.
