Page 7 of Holiday Hostilities
“All right.” I don’t bother to remind her that she “borrowed” ten dollars not two days ago. And another five the day before that. Instead, I grab a wrinkled bill from my wallet and thrust it into her hand as I usher her out of my room and shut the door, willing the migraine to disappear.
My next flight isn’t until tomorrow, so today is my oyster. I usually like to start my mornings with a workout, but with so little sleep, all I want is to eat something that’s been deep-fried to oblivion.
And there’s one person who I know will be awake right now and would likely want to partake.
Breakfast?
I put my phone down, hoping I’ll get a response soon. And, as predicted, my brother texts back immediately.
Absolutely. Essy’s?
Hell, yes.
Essy’s, short for Esmerelda’s Cosmic Cafe, is a retro-style diner that doubles as a fortune teller’s den. I think. Esmerelda herself is the owner—a stocky, short woman in her sixties (I suspect her real name is something more along the lines of “Edith”). She’s often the one running the floor, clad in a purple kaftan and a lopsided turban as she delivers meals to the wrong tables along with words of “wisdom” she has been prophetically given from the powers that be.
Bizarrely, Essy’s is also top-rated for accommodating allergies and dietary restrictions.
It’s one of my favorite places in Atlanta so far.
Want me to pick you up?
That would be awesome, thanks Jake.
Sweet, see you in ten.
No time for makeup or a nice outfit, but I ain’t gonna complain about a free ride. I don’t have a car, and while I’d love to buy one, saving up to get out of this looney bin of an apartment is taking precedence right now.
Public transit and hitched rides, it is.
I pull on a vintage Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt over my sports bra and leggings and brush my teeth, all the while tuning out the racket in my apartment and concentrating on visions of the breakfast bowl I’m going to order—scrambled eggs, duck-fat hashbrowns, extra bacon, extra cheese. Hell, extra everything.
If I’m gonna make it through the morning on this little sleep, I’ll need calories. Lots of them.
And then a long nap.
Exactly ten minutes later, I’m rushing down the rickety metal stairs of my third-floor walkup and out to Jake’s SUV, tying my red waves into a topknot with a scrunchie.
“Morning!” I say as I duck into the backseat.
Jake’s girlfriend, Sofia, twists around in the passenger seat to smile at me. “Hi!”
Yes, I saidgirlfriend. Because Permanently Single Jake is now Loved-Up Relationship Jake. Sofia’s existence came as a total surprise when I made my permanent move to Atlanta a couple of months ago. But it did explain my brother’s surreptitious texting and his sudden interest in Mexican beer (she’s from Monterrey).
She’s also (indirectly) the reason for my current living situation.
Not that I hold it against her.
Sofia is the world’s nicest person and my brother’s polar opposite. She’s the best thing that ever happened to him, and while I was shocked when I turned up on Jake’s doorstep with a suitcase and Sofia was the one who answered the door with a warm smile of recognition, I’m really happy for him. Even if it meant that I had to move into the first apartment-share I could find on Craigslist.
My initial plan had been to stay with Jake for a week or two until I found an apartment with good transit links to Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson airport (or ATL for short). My brother did—regardless of Sofia—offer me his spacious guest room, but I didn’t want to cramp his space or third-wheel in his budding relationship in any way. Especially after seeing how cute the two of them are together and how happy Jake is.
Having your baby sister hanging around probably doesn’t pave the way for romance.
Which is how I ended up sharing a home with a serial break-up griever, an honest-to-goodness wannabe-professional bagpiper, and a suspected underwear thief.
Oh, yeah. I haven’t mentioned the underwear thief yet, have I?
Guess I’m saving the worst for last.