Page 52 of Back for Seconds

Subject Line: Disaster has STRUCK

December 21, 10:30 p.m.

Daughter,

I am so sorry about what happened THE MINUTE I LEFT TOWN. If my phone reception hadn’t been such SHIT, I would have spent all night on a video call with you.

I’m so happy you have Joey there to make you feel better. What a NICE GUY.

Unlike my roommate.

Yes, roommate. You read that correctly. Because we are officially bunking together.

Turns out mixing up two people’s last names and assuming they are married and assigning them to the same room is not really reversible. Alfiero and Altiera ARE NOT THAT CLOSE. I should have never taken your father’s last name. AnneMarie Greco is who I am, dammit!!! Who the hell is AnneMarie Alfiero anyway!!!

Where did I leave off? Ok, yes, you already know—Dante Altiera and I were assigned to the same room. Some little matchbox thing with a queen bed that basically touched both walls. We were standing there in the hallway, wide-eyed, looking at each other then back at the bed. Each other, bed. Each other, bed.

Now, I won’t lie to you and say Dante isn’t handsome. He’s tall as anything with one of those square, square jaws. He’s got the cleanest, whitest beard I’ve ever seen. It’s like freshly fallen snow. So geometric and well maintained. I couldn’t see his eyes—they were hidden behind those stupid reflective aviator sunglasses I’m always whining to you about. I googled him and he used to be a coach for those Roll Tide people. They still have his old photo up! He’s younger in the photo, angry looking with his jaw set hard, his dark eyes filled with fiery pride. But he has the cutest freckles splattered over the bridge of his nose.

Oh, whatever. Anyway, it doesn’t matter how handsome my roommate is because he’s not very nice.

The staff was so humiliated and apologetic over the error that they moved us into the bridal suite. Who is getting married on a cruise ship? We have separate rooms, our own bathrooms, but they’re connected by this shared living room with big brocade couches, a flat screen TV, and a balcony that overlooks…well, the ocean. No loud decks below. No raucous shuffleboard competitions. No Karens from Orange County screaming, “woooohoooooo!” every fifteen seconds.

But you know men and a flat screen. No sooner had we shuffled through the doorway together—“See you, roomie!” I called over my shoulder, hoping he’d say something. Nope, he just grunted, dropped his bags in his room, plopped down on that couch and put on…you guessed it. Football.

Men.

Men!

Tonight’s the Welcome Ball. I can’t wait to meet some new friends.

I can hear my roommate shuffling around the little kitchenette right now. He’s probably fixing himself some liquid courage. God, how weird. I’ve never lived with anyone other than your father. You know how I was so afraid before I got on the plane? Now, I can’t help but just laugh.

Alright, I’m going to go sunbathe. Let’s see if Dante can resist taking a look at your old mom’s rack when she walks by. Hey, ten thousand dollars these things cost me. Someone better be looking.

Love you to Saturn and back,

Mom

PS: Tomorrow we port in the Bahamas! How cool!

Part Two

in the weeds

Common restaurant slang used to describe the overwhelmed kitchen and front-of-house staff experience at peak service hours, resulting in an inability to keep up with customer demand and a feeling of being totally, utterly lost.

Used in a sentence:

Yo, table eighteen wants fifteen chicken tender baskets? I’m already in the weeds, man.

Chapter 17 Joey

Three days until Christmas

Last night I drove back to my cabin with a lead foot on the gas pedal, reaching and surpassing eighty miles per hour as I tore over the Malaga Bay Bridge and through the dark, marshy back roads that led to my cabin.

Five a.m. came way too quickly. I rolled out of bed, shouted at the feeling of the ice-cold floor under my feet, and stumbled into the shower like a still-drunk sailor. My morning session with a silver-haired former athlete obsessed with living forever went by in a blur where I repeatedly lost track of how many laps my client had swum, how many wall-balls he’d launched, and how many minutes he’d been sprinting on the treadmill. My thoughts were trapped in Jell-O—suspended in the memory of June’s body against mine, her mouth on my neck, her jawline as her head fell back in pleasure. I tried to squeeze my eyes shut and shake the memory out of my mind, but as soon as my eyelashes touched my cheeks, I saw June. Her tattoos. Her sleepy, satisfied gaze.