like a total idiot.
CHAPTER 7
“Are you okay?” I heard a voice behind me and peeped around. The chef was standing there.
“I’m thinking of going keto,” I said, and then suddenly didn’t know why I’d said that.
The man smiled. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
I lifted my head and looked at him. “Hashtag keto life.” I said this almost under my breath.
His smile grew; it seemed genuinely warm and sympathetic. “Again, I’m not sure I know what you mean. But is the breakfast okay?” He indicated my plate, and I looked at it and sighed.
“I actually don’t eat breakfast,” I said.
He scrunched his face up. “Now I really don’t understand.”
“I don’t eat breakfast,” I repeated.
“But you just spent ten minutes taking a photo of it?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, is there something special you would like me to make you instead of this?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. I really don’t eat breakfast. I just take photos of it.”
“What do you do with the breakfast after you’ve taken a photo of it?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes my boyfriend eats it, but now . . . now . . .” I moaned loudly. “I don’t have a boyfriend anymore because he’s probably taking photos of his special couple breakfast with @Paige_Dreams_. I bet they’re keto now too, you know how popular going keto is? I bet they tagged it hashtag breakfastgoals or hashtag foodgasm or hashtag ketocouple. You know they have a ship name already? It’s Kaige. Can you imagine that!”
The man reached out and laid a hand on my shoulder. It was a massive hand. The man was huge. One of the tallest people I’d seen. But not in an imposing way. Like a gentle giant. “There, there,” he said, and passed me a serviette.
“Our ship name would have been Fyle or Krankie. How terrible is that?”
The man continued to pat my shoulder. “I’m sure I should know what you’re talking about, but really, lass, I don’t. But I can see you’re upset. Would you like to have a coffee with me and chat for a while?”
“You want to have coffee with me and chat?” I was taken aback.
“Sure.”
“What kind of coffee?” I wondered if he could do those things with the colored frothed milk that made it look like you had dolphins and flamingos in your cappuccino. Those made such good Insta pics.
He smiled at me. “Nothing fancy. But it looks like you could do with a friend right now.”
I almost opened my mouth and told him that if he wanted to be my friend he could follow me on @FitspoFrankie, but didn’t. I shook my head. “I’m okay,” I said. “I’m going to be okay. Everything is okay and perfectly normal and fine and okay.”
The man gave me a slow, sad smile. “Lass, when you’re taking photos of your breakfast and not eating it, something is not okay.”
It was the first time I’d taken note of his accent. It was thick and had a sing-song quality to it. I didn’t know exactly where he was from, but I was guessing the Scottish Highlands. For a moment I imagined him in a kilt, but pushed the image out of my mind.
“Something is definitely not okay,” he repeated and then I seemed to hear his words for the first time.
If I was taking photos of my breakfast and not eating it, something was not okay!
The strangeness of it hit me all at once. I had never thought about it before. But having someone point it out to me, in a place like this, it suddenly sounded so absurd. For years I’d been taking photos of my breakfast—and not just any photos, ones that were perfectly crafted and curated and styled and filtered—and in all that time I’d never eaten any of it. Not once. Not one tiny morsel of my perfect breakfast had ever touched my overlined lips. I threw my hands up in the air, looked over at the chef, and then I started laughing. He looked nervous for a few moments, as if trying to decide whether it was okay to laugh along with me, or whether my laughter was a sign of bad things to come. But then he threw his head back and also laughed.
“Now that’s the spirit, lass,” he said. “Laughter is the best medicine, isn’t it?” He had this big, hearty laugh, the kind you would expect from a red-bearded Scotsman type. It was deep and throaty and felt like it was the kind of laugh