3
VICTORIA
August 9
I wake up with hair in front of my face, a dry mouth, and a thick and lazy tongue. Peeling back heavy eyelids, I evaluate my current state. I’m on top of my sheets. My shoes are off, socks and jeans still on. Yet I’ve only got a bra on.
What the heck?
How did I get back home?
What’s that taste in my mouth?
I lick my chapped lips and rub my puffy eyes.
Then, the memories cycle.
“No,” I moan as my arm flies across my face.
The night started with me taking a walk along one of Dunford’s trails after I’d packed up for my trip to Vegas for my West Coast Eats callback. I’d wanted space and clarity, and being outdoors always brought me perspective: my problems might seem overwhelming and huge, but in the scope of the entire universe, I wasn’t even as big as a speck of sand.
I ended up at the orchard, surrounded by the sweet fragrance of ripening apples. Looking up at the sky, I wished for a sign, something to tell me that doing this callback was the right thing to do. Sure, I was thrilled about the opportunity. The callback had been a big middle finger to my catfish crisis. But I’d sent in that audition tape almost a year ago, before my blog took off, before I fell hard in love with writing.
When the North Star winked back at me, I thought of the compass tattoo. I thought that with a compass imprinted on my body, I would never be lost again.
With four cups of coffee behind me during the day and a couple of ensaymada—Filipino sweet rolls slathered in butter that my sister keeps in her freezer for emergencies—in my belly, I thought tequila shots were the perfect way to prep for the tattoo. O’Grady’s was my only real option for escape and for a liquid amnesic. Actually, Dunford Vineyard was the closest, but wine seemed too refined for what I wanted to accomplish. Why put in the effort when all I wanted was to get buzzed?
I took four shots with a couple of the locals, then made my way two doors down to Golden Tattoo, where I commenced to make a fool out of myself. Then, Joel, the Quiet One, saved me from making a bigger scene, because by the time I got to the tattoo studio, the alcohol had begun to settle into my system and . . .
“No.” I moan again.
I puked on Joel’s shoes. Oh, God, and I think I cried.
I cover my face with a pillow.
“Ah, you were a couple of seconds away from getting water in your face.” The mattress dips at my feet where my sister sits. The volume of her voice, on a scale of one to ten, is a twelve, and it’s probably on purpose. “You should get on the road soon so you can get to Vegas by dinnertime.”
“My audition isn’t even until tomorrow.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying.” She pulls the pillow off my face, combs my hair out of my eyes. Eyes narrowed and with pursed lips, she licks her finger and rubs something off my cheek, making me feel even more ridiculous.
I roll my eyes. “My audition isn’t until nine tomorrow. I can lay here for another ten minutes.”
“I’m not letting my chef go with you for nothing. I want you to get to Vegas, get settled, and get your mind on straight. Have some fun; be twenty-four.”
I blink up at Bryn. My sister is the definition of forward motion. We’re both entrepreneurs, both driven, but she . . . she doesn’t rest. She also doesn’t think I should waste another iota of time thinking of my past, of Luke Graham, and when she found out that Vegas was the callback destination, she was intent on me getting him “out of my system.”
But when his name materializes in my head, my insides roil.
“Ate,” I whisper. Big sister. I feel myself fall back into the depths of betrayal and the doubts I’ve generally kept silent try to push their way out of my body. I clamp my eyes shut, sift over all the reasons why heading to Vegas doesn’t sound like the peachiest idea. There’s the fact that I don’t know what this callback is about; that while I can vlog with the best of them, I don’t know if I can act, which is essentially what being a host is. And with the way I’m feeling right now, can I even fake a smile? “I can’t get on the road hungover. I’ll throw up again. And like you said, you’re letting Ellie go with me and she’s needed here. I don’t want to interrupt the opening.”
Chef Ellie Reyes is Paraiso’s full-time culinary instructor and someone who we’ve become fast friends with. She’s coming with me because she wants to meet up with a tiny-house builder based in Vegas, but I bet she’s been tasked to keep tabs on me.
“Vic.”
“Maybe I’m supposed to be like you and dad. Invest in things that stay. In things that matter. In things that exist.”
In people that exist.
Her fingers pad across my face, tuck my hair behind my ears. The gesture is reminiscent of what my mother used to do when I had my bad days. We lost our mom five years ago, but I consider myself lucky that despite this, I have Bryn. I can still be like this—a little broken—and have her not judge me, as pushy as she is. “What you do matters. You’re pithy and clever. You can talk forever about anything. You can write. You can see the beauty in things; it shows in your photography. Not everyone has these talents, and no one can take them away. Not even Luke.”
I open my eyes to similar golden-brown eyes, pinched at the corners, looking back at me, the same heart-shaped face, the same sharp V of a chin. Although our hairstyle is now markedly different, with my blond highlights and long tresses and her A-line haircut with red balayage, we’ve got the same medium-beige skin color, the perfect mix of our dad’s fair skin and our mother’s olive complexion. I rise up to my elbows, and Bryn makes up the distance and hugs me tight, pressing me against her. It’s as if her conviction is passed over in this act, so I can inhale deeply and sit up. I remember that whether or not this audition is the best step, it’s simply that: movement somewhere. And sometimes, that is enough.
“Do you think my outfit is travel-worthy?” I look down at my half-naked self, and as the events of last night flash through my mind again, a giggle bubbles through my lips. “Please tell me it was you who took my shirt off.”
Her eyes light up in mischief. “Yes, but oh, were you a sight, little sis.” Bryn stands and reaches for two mugs on the dresser. She passes me my mug. It’s a set we had personalized together. Hers has the word ate in a rounded Arial, and mine has bunso—or last child—in calligraphy. The scent of Kape Barako, coffee made from beans from the Philippines, instantly wakes me. “What were you doing trying to get a tattoo by yourself, anyway?”
“I don’t know.” I roll my eyes.
“I’m glad Jake had enough sense to send you away. Who knows what you would have come home with?” She holds her hands up before I can protest her maternal nagging. “I get it. All the more reason why Vegas is going to be good for you. Who knows? You might find your true north out there.” She grins, taking a sip. “But if you ever see Joel again, you’d better give him a solid thank-you. The guy was a saint. You’d already thrown up on him, and he still had you up by the shoulders when he got you to the front door. He had to clean up before we took him home.”
“Ugh.” I wince. “I owe him a thanks and an apology. Top it off, I think I was rude to him last night.”
“You should try to find him on Facebook or something. I’m planning on doing it myself, actually. As much as I started to get a little cabin fever from all the cameras, I think I might actually miss the crew. It’s so much quieter now that they’re gone.” She spins her wrist and glances at her Fitbit. “It’s telling me to move. Also, it’s time for you to go.” She lugs my cherry red hard-shell suitcase onto the mattress. I climb down and open it to take a final inventory of my things. It’s packed with almost everything I own. With how much I travel, there’s no room for mess, and I’ve learned to live with little. Besides a few outfits and a little black dress—with respective shoes to match, of course—that I keep at my sister’s and my dad’s places, my “must-pack” list consists of a stash of brightly colored pants, bohemian shirts, flats, and a worn and frayed Levi’s jean jacket, tightly rolled and tucked together.
There’s only one thing missing.
I pull my journal from under my pillow. I haven’t written in it in days, but with this new step, surely my mojo will return. Vegas will be good for me. This audition will jump-start this low point. And I don’t know, maybe I’ll find my way to the real path I’m supposed to take.
I heave a breath, pull out a shirt and a pair of pants, then glance at my sister.
“I’ll be ready to go in ten minutes.”