8
VICTORIA
Despite being clearheaded and chipper, I’m working my way through what could be considered classic hangover food from the $19.99 buffet. Greasy bacon; crispy, salty potatoes; fried eggs; and buttery toast fan across my plate. A cold wineglass holding a fizzy mimosa, now only half full, sits above my meal. And across from me is my friend, looking the worse for wear, moaning.
Ellie holds her head in her hands as if it weighs a million pounds. She’s wearing a tank today, and it shows off her impressive stained glass tattoo that starts at the top of her shoulders and slips under the tank’s racerback. The design is abstract, thick black lines and sharp angles, and is shaded in colors that remind me of the ocean: teal, dark blue, green, yellow, and orange. Face shadowed by her flat-billed cap, I don’t realize she’s noticed me staring until she says, “When it’s time for you to get a real tattoo, call me and I’ll take you.”
I crunch down on my toast, intentionally loud and slightly annoyed. “You heard about that?”
Her voice is hoarse and low. “I’m friends with Jake”—she lifts her head up and eyes me—“the owner of Golden Tattoo. He felt pretty bad about how things went down.”
“Not bad enough to keep his mouth shut, apparently.”
She sighs, arms now folded in front of her. “Hey, don’t get pissed at the messenger or the victim. It’s you who went in there and fell asleep on his couch.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“Sure.” Ellie lengthens the word.
I shove the rest of the toast into my mouth and cut up my fried eggs into little pieces, pressing the knife’s edge into the plate so it squeaks. Ellie leans further away from me, as if the sound is Kryptonite.
“Brat. How can you even eat?”
“How can you not?” I fork a piece of egg and potato into my mouth, a heavenly combination of salt and butter. I sort out the herbs the cook used in the potatoes: oregano, rosemary. Maybe parsley.
“I swear, you are the most cerebral eater I know. If I wasn’t so happy to see you in a good mood because you probably got some last night, I would find it annoying.” Ellie smiles—though it looks more like a grimace—then wiggles her nose, seemingly tempted by the food on my plate.
“Why thank you,” I retort, because heck yeah, I appreciate my food. Despite my eyes-bigger-than-my-stomach problem, I take my time and savor each dish. Give it time to melt in my mouth. Allow for the emotions to take hold, and usually write it down somewhere for my next blog post. Though I haven’t written in a while, the realization that I definitely have my appetite back, and that I did get some last night, makes me grin.
I scoop up a piece of bacon with my fork and bite into the heavenly crunch.
I love bacon.
Ellie shakes her head. She doesn’t believe in cutting and forking food when it’s meant to be picked up. But instead of complaining about it, her expression turns curious. “So?”
“So, what?” I take a long sip of my mimosa. The acidity of the orange juice is a perfect palate cleanser, the bubbles festive, reminding me of last night. Joel and I had sex three times. Three times! I truly thought anything more than once was an urban legend.
I’ve been missing out.
“I told you about my night, and now it’s your turn. That’s how it works.”
Ellie ended up back in our room last night, sans Darrell. Her hookup stalled at second base, at 11 p.m. when he was called in to work for an emergency. This made my story the hotter of our two experiences—and, therefore, highly interesting and upside-down. Usually it’s me who has mellow nights. Unlike food and writing, my love life has been a series of letdowns. Ellie has told me stories over drinks that have been hotter than the erotic romance novels I have uploaded to my Kindle app for those late, lonely nights on the road.
Speaking of which, I spin my watch around to check the time. A hand slips into my view, covering the watch face. “You still have a couple of minutes before we need to head to your audition. Give me the CliffsNotes.”
I stuff my mouth with food to give myself some time to think about how to tell this story. I love Ellie. When she moved into Paraiso, she fit right in to our set of family and friends. I know I can trust her, but she’s as protective as my sister, a mama bear in every way. I keep learning that secrets never remain so in the Aquino clan, and the intrusion factor with my family members is high. That’s the reason I kept Luke from everyone during the months we were communicating. I’d only let it slip that I was “seeing”—in the loosest sense of the word—him a couple of weeks before I took off for Phoenix.
Then again, I don’t want a repeat of the Luke situation, so . . .
“Stop stalling, Vic.”
“Well, I . . . we . . . Joel and I.” I startle as my phone buzzes—my alarm. I stand, picking up my tray of food to bring to the disposal area. “Can we walk and talk?”
Ellie follows reluctantly. She has an obvious pained look on her face, as if it hurts just to walk.
Heading to the lobby of the MGM Grand, I continue, “We spent the night together.”
“Duh. I know.”
“And . . . we slept together.”
She shuffles to a stop. “Seriously?”
The crowd parts around us as I turn. Ellie’s blinking back a look of surprise. I sigh. “What? You’re not allowed to judge me.”
“Um—this is not the look of judgment.” She points at her face. “This is the look of surprise. I thought you were, I dunno . . .”
“Did you think I was a virgin?” I pull her by the arm, not wanting to be late for this callback, and because I don’t want to have this conversation in the middle of a lobby. Joel could still be in the hotel.
That would be hella awkward. I speed up my steps.
“I mean . . .” Ellie lowers her voice, catching up to me. “Yeah. You’re like this kind of youngish—”
“You’re only a couple of years older than me, Ellie.”
“I know, but you’re like a young, young twenty-four.”
“Are you saying I’m naïve?”
“No. Innocent. Pure-ish.” With a wry smile, she croons, “And Joel’s older.”
“I’m thinking he’s in the thirty to thirty-five age range.”
“How did you come up with that?”
“I added it up. He did some time in the Army—that’s how he knows Darrell. I assume he had to go to school to be a cameraman. And his job at Paraiso wasn’t his first. When he was introduced to us the first time, the producer said she trusted him and he was one of the best, which means he’s had some experience.”
“Look at you—you thought about it. So, at the minimum, he’s six years older. But beyond that, since I truly believe age is just a number, I’m guessing he might be more experienced.”
My cheeks burn at the memory of just how experienced Joel was last night. In thought, in words, in actions. Hands that showed no doubt. Confident lips that took me to the next level of bliss. A body that moved with such assurance that I forgot my own inexperience.
“And he’s got that thing where he doesn’t talk much, but it’s way deeper than brooding. You’re the complete opposite. It’s like if they took a picture of that Myers-Briggs test, you’re in the upper-left-hand corner, and he’s in the bottom right.”
“I don’t even know how to respond to that.” We walk down to the conference rooms, where people are sitting in chairs lined up in the hallway. They’re here, I assume, for their auditions, too. My mind flips to a completely blank page, and my body goes stiff. “Can we . . . talk about this later?”
I spot a woman with a phone against her ear and holding a clipboard, and head her way.
Ellie continues to chatter, her words as quick as a hummingbird’s. “Fine, but now I’m put in a messed-up spot. As your friend, I want to say ‘go girl,’ but the other part of me—the sisterly part—is not liking this. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that. Wait here a sec,” I say to Ellie as I reach the woman. “Hi. I’d like to check in, please?” I give her my name and plop down in an open chair, while Ellie takes the one next to me.
Ellie digs. “What do you mean by that?”
It takes me a beat to get back into the conversation. “I don’t want you to worry. And, anyway, I won’t get hurt because I’m never going to see him again. Even if I did see him again? I’m not worried. Joel isn’t random. Day in and day out, the guy was in my sister’s house for the better part of two months. He isn’t a jerk, you know?”
“So, what happens now?”
I snicker. “For someone who could barely stay awake ten minutes ago, you sure have a ton of questions.”
“I smell deflection.”
I can’t help it—I let a smile creep onto my face. The whole night consisted of pure pleasure in textures and sounds and touch, with very little speech except for the dirty things Joel whispered in my ear. Bait to keep me going, to keep my energy up. Despite his lack of frivolous conversation, he knew exactly what to say to turn me on. “I’ll enjoy the memory. That whole thing about him being more experienced? You are most definitely right.” A giggle bursts from my lips, though it fades when I reveal what’s below my awe from last night. The thing that is so unlike me: “Is it weird to say that I’m okay with not needing to see him again? Last night was amazing, but—”
“There’s nothing weird about it, my friend. You’re two consenting adults. He was there for you, as you were there for him. End of story.” Ellie scrunches her nose. “But I do believe it’s because you still think about that fucker.”
“Who?” I jest, but my mind is already there. With Luke. In Phoenix, with all my hopes pinned on one man and one romantic happily ever after.
My heart drops in my chest.
Ellie snaps her fingers in front of my face, and when I raise my gaze, I find her looking at me knowingly.
I press my lips together. “Yeah, I guess I still do think of him. He emailed me, actually.”
She frowns. “I thought you had him blocked.”
“I did. But he changed his email, so . . .”
“Then I’m even more glad you and Joel did the horizontal Hokey Pokey. He showed you how a man’s supposed to worship you, Vic.”
“Yeah, but it also reminded me how deep I fell with Luke. I don’t want that to happen to me again. Not with my eyes closed, anyway.”
Ellie opens her mouth to speak, but the conference room door flies open and a woman walks out. “Victoria Aquino?”
I raise a hand. “Here.” Ellie offers me a fist. I bump it with mine.
Ellie then does something unthinkable. She reaches in to hug me, and it’s tight and solid, grounding me. “Whatever happens in there, know that you’re a badass for coming all the way out here.”
“Thanks, Ellie.”
I follow the assistant to the open door, my heart jumping in my chest. I focus on placing my feet one in front of the other as I approach the long table manned by three people. Tented signs label each person: Olivia Russell, producer and editor. Tara Sullivan, director. Francis Lopez, chef. To the side is a row of five people with clipboards in their hands.
Sweat blooms under my arms, and I’m so, so glad I decided to wear black. Good golly, this is like America’s Got Talent.
Olivia stands with an arm outstretched. Her smile is welcoming. “Hello, Victoria. Welcome. I hope you enjoyed your night here in Sin City.”
“Thank you for having me.” Heat rises to my cheeks. For a brief moment I flash back to my live stream experience. Did they have cameras trained on me last night?
That’s ridiculous. Focus, Vic.
She sits. “This is going to be quick and short. Soon, our assistant will be bringing out a plate of food, cooked especially for you by Chef Lopez.” She casts a glance to the man sitting two seats from her. “Then, you’ll have three minutes to think of what to say about the dish. Any questions?”
“Yes, um . . . what’s the show’s perspective? What angle should I come from?”
A smile spreads across Tara’s lips, and Chef Lopez marks something on his clipboard.
Olivia’s eyes flash. “Why do you ask that?”
“I mean, it’s all about perspective, right? Describing a dish from a diner is utterly different from describing one from an upscale restaurant, even if it’s the exact same dish. It’s the same with photography—perspective brings out specific qualities of the same subject. To be honest, any vista can be prettier or uglier depending on how it’s looked at . . .” My voice trails off as I realize I’ve gone on one of my chatter-rants.
Olivia clears her throat. “Let’s say it’s a worst cooks competition.”
The squeak of wheels brings my attention to a rear door, where the assistant has appeared with a cart, and on top of it is a covered silver platter. It’s rolled up in front of me, then unveiled.
Spaghetti and meatballs.
I love any and all Italian food. My future cousin-in-law, Camille, is a food truck chef of Italian heritage, and she’s cooked me the best food on the planet—next to Filipino food, that is.
What luck. This should be easy.
Olivia wakes me from my thoughts. “Your three minutes start now.”
I wiggle my nose at the smell, more sour than garlic. The noodles are stuck together, some flat, meaning it’s probably overcooked. The sauce is so runny that it’s pooled at the bottom of the dish. Taking the fork, I slice down one of the meatballs, and it flops in half, stiff. Overcooked. Twirling the spaghetti over a spoon, the rest of the sauce drips off, revealing pale noodles that I bet are going to be tasteless.
I already know the food is going to suck, but I smile. The words are already being written in my head. I even have the perfect picture to use had this been a blog post, and all the fear over this audition dissipates. This is old hat.
“I’m ready,” I say.
“That was quick.” It’s Tara who speaks this time. She stands and moves behind the camera, next to the cameraman. “Pretend I’m your director. Follow my cues, okay?”
I swallow, hard. Then put the fork and spoon down. “Okay.”
Watching Tara as she speaks to the cameraman, I run through the highlights in my head: introduction, purpose, tasting, conclusion, goodbye—the basics of blogging and vlogging. And when I see Tara raise her hand to me, I put on my YouTube smile and let the words spew forth.