Hello Adventure

Chapter 8

The next day, I wasn't feeling so happy-go-lucky.

Through dark sunglasses, I eyeballed the team bunched at a table on the grass beside the spa pool of The Grand Hotel Tremezzo. Why, oh, why did think an introductory poolside 9 a.m. meeting was a grand idea?

Thankfully, I slept through most of my hangover, as I was fast asleep in a Negroni-tinged haze by 10 p.m.—or sometime thereabouts. Really, who can say?

I was in full business casual attire, but everyone else was decidedly underdressed—then again, this wasn't their first rodeo, but it was mine. And apparently, it showed.

It turns out I already suck at full-time adulting, I thought as I cradled my cappuccino protectively. In Italy, the mornings were the only appropriate time to order one. (I also learned this from Brooke's website, in the kindly post entitled "How Not To Look Like A Dumb Plebe In Italy.")

"We'll just wait for Brooke to arrive and then we'll walk through the social media plan and deliverables for the shoots." I said to everyone after our introductions, trying to come off as capable and managerial. Even though I was really here to watch Brooke, I was still taking my official role as campaign producer seriously, and by now I had fleshed out a complete side project to focus on in lieu of babysitting.

The team spoke amongst themselves under the shade of the bleach-white umbrella, picking at the breakfast layout. Since they worked together on the test shoot, they all seemed friendly with each other already. I felt a little left out, but I was never good at group projects anyway. I always worked best alone, when there was only me to count on. I never let myself down, no matter what it took.

Looking over them, I wondered who was Brooke's new boyfriend. Contrary to what she led me to believe, there was no obvious contender for the new beau. I evaluated them one by one:

If I had to guess, I would say it was Leo Sacchetti, the tattooed Italian photographer with the Jesus hair and a faux-mystic vibe. He had swaggery self-confidence and reeked of new-age spirituality—literally (he smelled like sandalwood oil, matcha tea, and kombucha long-passed its sell-by date). He actually said: "Namaste, bella," after I introduced myself, bowing his head to his hands which were in prayer position and clad with Buddha beads.

"Nice to meet you," I mumbled, but just as I was about to peg him as Brooke's new boy, he name-dropping no less than three Victoria's Secret models he recently photographed, claiming that he had a "profound connection" with each of them—especially deep in his "root chakra." As he went on, I couldn't for the life of me accept that it was this thirsty spiritual showoff that Brooke was crazy for. I certainly wouldn't let him anywhere near my root chakra.

Yet the other candidates seemed even less likely.

There was Samuel ("no, you cannot call me Sam,") the creative stylist, who came off as ice-cold and slightly creepy with his floury white complexion and impeccable Southern gentry wardrobe. He looked like one of those delicate men who indirectly addressed his mom as "Mother." (As in, "What would Mother think?" or "Mother wouldn't like this.") Then on production, there was "Cairo" or "Cai:" nicknames for a reserved Egyptian production guy, who wouldn't utter one word to me, he just nodded at me once then went back to his laptop.

Just then, Brooke swanned over, looking revoltingly healthy and interrupting my admittedly critical evaluations. The verb "to swan" was made for women like Brooke in this moment. She was sporting a fresh blowout and was clearly hangover free, bouncing over like goddamn Princess Elsa in a millennial pink bikini.

This high-waist pencil skirt was a deplorable idea, I thought to myself, as I shifted my weight from thigh to thigh, the sweat dripping behind my kneecaps. Even though it was early, the sun was strong overhead and glinting off the chlorinated pool in watery gems of light. The day was shaping up to be unusually warm—there was a heat wave moving through the area at the moment, and I certainly wasn't prepared for such unseasonable temperatures.

"Stop being so perfect!" I wanted to yell out to Brooke even though my headache, bad mood, and wobbly eyeliner were my own doing and not hers. She had the good sense to stop drinking once we got to Como, but it was just at that moment, I could never imagine feeling as fresh and formidably charming as her.

"Hey guys! Sorry I'm late!" she sang, and the men delighted in her presence and welcomed her with a chorus of cooing and kisses. She walked by me and added out of the side of her mouth, so only I could hear: "Wild night." Her honey-colored irises were as oversized and twinkly as Snapchat filter.

I vomited a little in my mouth and looked over at the guys again with a frown. Maybe Samuel was her type?

But then, he walked over.

It goes without saying that it was him. Of course, it was going to be him. It was always going to be him. And of course, it was him that Brooke was sleeping with.

I punishingly crushed my incisor down into my bottom lip when we locked eyes, but him? Well, he didn't even have the decency to look surprised. He just flashed me that shit-eating American grin, and said, "Hey, kid. How's the head?"