Page 2 of Unwrapped
“Absolutely. They’re the definition of welcoming and a blast to hang out with. You’ll feel right at home, I promise.”
She’s a trauma nurse at New York General Hospital where I work as a staff pharmacist. We hit it off the moment we met, and I’m lucky to call her a friend. I know my old roomies will love her. I’m excited to introduce everyone.
“OK, good. I wouldn’t wanna interrupt any pill-counting races, or whatever the hell you guys do for fun.”
I laugh, knowing the only pharmacists she’s encountered are the middle-aged dudes at our hospital withzeropersonality. “Trust me, my friends are nothing like Bob, Hugh, or the rest of the fuddy-duddies I’m stuck with. We’re pretty chill. You’ll see.”
“Jesus. This place is huge,” Lena marvels, eyeing the massive log cabin we pulled up alongside. “Wait. Did that sign say it’s a vineyard too?”
“Yeah, Queen Bee Bed and Breakfast is affiliated with Boss Bitch Vineyard. Jordana and Talia graduated high school with the woman who owns the whole compound. She always rents us the entire bed and breakfast, so we don’t have to worry about disturbing other guests.” I flash her a wink. “Because it gets kinda rowdy when we play spin-the-mortar-and-pestle.”
She cackles a laugh. “What about seven minutes in heaven? Is there a pharmy version of that? Or do you guys just lock yourselves in people’s bathrooms and scavenge the medicine cabinets for expired drugs?”
“I can’t speak for the other girls, but I can assure you I’ve never experienced anything remotely sexual with any of the guys you’ll meet. I mean, don’t get me wrong—they’re all gorgeous, but it’s totally platonic. Also, I check expiration dates on everything. I can’t help it.” It’s part of the reason I take forever to do my grocery shopping.
“I know. I saw you in my pantry. I bet you were pissed you didn’t find anything.”
“Crestfallen. Ruined my whole day.”
She giggles and gestures to the parked cars lining the circular driveway. “Looks like a full house.”
“Told you there were a bunch of us.” I scan the vehicles, recognizing most of them, but there’s an unfamiliar black SUV parked between Jude’s and Hudson’s cars. Maybe one of the girls bought a new ride. I cut the engine and unfasten my seatbelt, pointing to the box of cupcakes. “Let’s go in. I’m starving.”
We shared a mango treat on our way up the Thruway, but it proved a messy endeavor. Lena wasn’t kidding—it was beyond delicious. I’ve been salivating to try the other flavors.
Frigid air blasts us as we climb from my powder blue Beetle.
Lena shudders. “As my grandmother would always say, ‘It’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra.’” Laughing, she motions to her chest. “Can you imagine if we actually had to wear metal ones?”
“Oh, hell no. I’d go braless.”
“Girl, same.”
Hustling to the back of my little car, I pop the trunk open to retrieve our bags. Lena’s red duffel feels like it’s loaded with bricks. “Woman, what the hell did you pack?” I say with a dramatic groan.
Taking it from me, she loops the strap over her shoulder and winces beneath the bag’s weight. “Oh, you know, just some books. There’s a new Kristie Wolf novel that came out on Tuesday. I’m dying to read it.”
It’s an understatement to call her an avid reader. She could devour a novel a day if her schedule allowed. I wish I had that kind of attention span. My job saps up what little focus I have, leaving my brain in squirrel mode on my days off, if you can even call them that. My time away from work is hardly relaxing, thanks to a never-ending to-do list. No matter how hard I try to accomplish everything, there are always a few straggling tasks that slide onto the next day’s list as little reminders of my failures.
Lena winces again, making me wonder why she bothers lugging around so many paperbacks. “Didn’t Marc buy you a Kindle?”
Her future husband is an orthopedic surgeon who works at our hospital. He’s out of town for yet another medical conference. She seemed bummed to spend the week alone—again—this close to Christmas, so I invited her to join me on my venture upstate.
“Yeah, but it’s not the same. I need the physicality of a book.” She wiggles her fingers. “It’s a tactile thing.”
“Lemme guess. You’re one of those paperback sniffers?”
She snorts. “I don’tintentionallysniff them, but I do love the smell. Speaking of books, how is yours coming along?”
Writing is the only activity that calms my overactive brain. It’s also the most challenging hobby I’ve ever attempted. I’ve beentryingto write a book for years but keep psyching myself out. The writer’s block I’ve been dealing with for the past six months hasn’t helped.
“Eh. There are some words,” I mutter with a shrug. “They’re all shitty, but whatever.”
“I’d be happy to read what you’ve written and give constructive feedback.”
The thought of someone actually reading my musings makes me want to vomit. “Maybe someday.” I grab our purses and hang my computer bag over my shoulder. “I brought my laptop in case I get inspired. Who knows? The cabin may be the change of scenery I’ve been waiting for.” Hope flickers to life with the idea of progress. Maybe my neglected manuscript will get some much-needed attention. After all, my to-do lists didn’t follow me upstate.
“I believe in you, chicky.”
