My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,46
right!
Every verse gets more hilarious, bawdier, and more explicit. Finally, I have to give up, setting down my knife before I cut myself. It’s the signal for the end of the song, and everyone cheers Esmar as I hold my belly, laughing hard and trying not to pass out because I can’t breathe.
“Congratulations, you lasted longer than most!” someone calls over, laughing themselves. “But those lines at the end, about her garlic knot and bathing it in butter . . . priceless!”
“How in the world did you come up with that?” I ask Esmar.
He shrugs, his knife never stopping as he cuts thin slices of jicama. “I’ve traveled some as well. A French chef I worked with would create lyrics to entertain us, and it became a fun way to greet new staff here.”
“You mean to haze them?” I say with a smile, still chuckling inside.
“You say to-mah-to, I say to-may-to,” he replies easily.
And we continue to work together through the lunch service, enjoying each other’s company and showing off a bit. Though for chefs, showing off is how we teach, how we learn.
As service wraps up, Esmar dismisses me. “Mashi danke. Thank you, Chef, but I must kick you out of my kitchen now. You are in paradise. Go enjoy the island.”
I take advantage of the offer, quickly washing up and heading back to Abigail’s room. Our room.
I like the sound of that. Fuck, she was stunning this morning—her thick hair a tangled mess from tossing and turning all night, her eyes bleary with sleep, and her nightgown too thin to disguise her pearled nipples. And her blatant desire and enjoyment of my body.
I enjoyed seeing her that way, a peek behind the bluster she puts on and defenses she wears like sparkly distractions.
I find the room empty and a small worry takes root. Is she going to stand me up?
I get ready, not willing to fully consider it. Once I’m in swimsuit trunks and a tank top, with a healthy layer of sunscreen, I sit on the couch and stare at the clock. One thirty comes and goes, and the root turns to a small sprout of nerves mixed with a tiny leaf of anger. If I have to scour the resort, I’ll find her. If nothing else, I know where she’ll be sleeping tonight . . . right beside me.
At 1:45, the door flies open and she comes running in. “Sorry! Sorry! You would not believe my morning. I’m ready!”
But since she runs right past me and into the bedroom, I find that hard to believe.
Janey follows along at a more reasonable pace, shaking her head. “It really has been a super shitty day, so go easy on her.” She tilts her head, considering. “Actually, maybe go rough? She might be into that. Bam-bam-bam.” She fists one hand as though holding imaginary hair and open-palm smacks the empty air in front of her, painting quite the picture.
As enticing as that sounds, something else she said is of much more immediate concern. “What happened today? What’s wrong?”
Janey shakes her head. “That’s up to her to share. Actually, I’m interested to see if she does, though I don’t know if it’s more meaningful that she forgets all about it when she’s with you or that she wants to tell you things. Guess I’ll ponder that while I slave away on this to-do list so she doesn’t freak the fuck out.” The last part is whispered so Abigail doesn’t hear.
“You’re a good friend, a good partner. You take good care of her,” I say genuinely.
Janey’s shrug is easy. “We take care of each other. On that note.” Her face instantly morphs to one of pure threat. “If you so much as hurt one hair on her head or leave one tiny crack in her heart, I will destroy you. The only thing you’re allowed to do is pound her uterus into her ribs if she asks you to.”
I blink. “Uh . . . is that an American euphemism I don’t know? It sounds painful.”
“Just don’t hurt her,” she summarizes as the door opens and Abigail sprints out again.
“Let’s go!”
She’s wearing purple running shorts and a bright pink tank top. A turquoise swimsuit peeks out under her arms, and her hair is now piled on top of her head. She’s a riot of color and energy that I want to sample, teasing apart her layers of complexity to discover how such a delicacy was born.