6

It was tradition to commence the evening sampling an extensive range of tequila when dining out at a Mexican restaurant in Mexico, apparently. This was according to Bob, who purchased a whole bottle of a brand I'd never heard of, but the price tag indicated its popularity.

Urgh. I hated shots.

No, I despised shots.

Billie and Sarah looked at me, then at the waiter who so elegantly poured each shot with precision. They knew me well enough to know I was gearing myself up to outright decline.

Julia, who'd refused to make eye contact with me since we arrived, reached for the first shot.

"Let's do this." She tapped the bar and knocked it back like a pro. I waited for some indication that she hated it, a small grimace at least, but the squirm of pure discomfort didn't come. Instead, she turned towards me and issued an ultimatum.

"Harper, your turn," she challenged. "It's the good stuff."

I honestly couldn't care if it was liquified gold mixed with some secret potion that made the recipient live forever; it still tasted foul. She sensed my hesitancy. The rest of the group were quick to follow in Julia's footsteps. There was a glimmer of something in her eye. Was it satisfaction? She was goading me. She knew, someway, somehow, I didn't want the shot .

"You like tequila, right?" She gripped the small shot glass with her fingertips and placed it gently in mine.

"Uh-huh," I responded.

I could be dramatic. I was the first to admit it, but the smell of tequila straight was offensive to my senses. The sharp pungent aroma made my body shiver. Julia leant back against the bar with a smug look on her face. Bob waited patiently for me to partake in the pre-drink. It would've been rude not to. I closed my eyes. I snapped my elbow forwards so sharply that the shot hit the back of my mouth and sailed down my throat so fast I didn't have time to dwell on the spicy notes. I kept a straight face. I was cool, calm, and collected on the outside whilst my insides were making me aware I would regret it later.

"Nicely done, Fox." Julia looked me up and down, as though she was following the path of the liquid through my body, urging it to break through the facade I was so desperately trying to portray.

The waiter arrived just in time to allow me a second's respite.

"You hate tequila," Billie whispered as we made our way to the table.

"Yep."

She didn't say anything more; she didn't need to.

I was at the back of the pack which left me with no choice but to take the only remaining seat—directly across from Julia.

Yay.

Upon showing us to our seats, the waiter promised the chef would seduce our tastebuds, his choice of words not mine. I was all for it. Mexican food wasn't my favourite cuisine, unless I made it myself, because then I could limit the spice. Extra, extra, extra mild with a bowl full of sour cream and my tastebuds could just about handle it. It was pathetic. I was aware.

The dress code for dinner was described as casual elegance with a brief description on the hotel amenities tablet. No flip-flops or beachwear. No sleeveless shirts. I needed more information, so I called the concierge with a raft of questions.

Does flip-flops mean all flip-flops, or are they specifically targeting the synthetic foam type?

It specified long pants indoors and smart shorts outdoors, but I did not have the ability to foresee the popularity of the restaurant, and whether we would be seated within a specific restricted area or not. How could I plan my outfit with that limited information?

The concierge clarified the trousers/shorts element was aimed at men more than women. Women could wear more or less anything other than a bikini.

Which led to my next question: What if you're female, but gay, and your clothing preference is "male" clothing?

Rosalina was stumped to start but recovered well assuring me that the restaurant did not discriminate, and anyone was free to wear what they felt most comfortable in. The guidelines were only in place to stop the very small minority of guests who had previously decided to go out for a five-star meal with beach hair and a creased sarong covering their modesty.

Fair enough. I had more clarity after that.

The restaurant was just as beautiful as the Italian. Like much of the hotel, there was a wooden element to the chosen accessories, but the walls were a lighter cloudy beige with warm bronze tones across the fixtures and fittings to tie it all together. The menu consisted of five starters, five mains, and five desserts. It wasn't extensive by any means, but the food looked delicious.

"A Caesar salad?" It was first up on the list of starters.

"What about it?" Sarah asked.

"Well, it's not Mexican, is it?" It had to be the least Mexican dish in my opinion. I would've been more inclined to say that chow mein was Mexican.

Sarah shrugged. Billie would know, but she was on the opposite side of Sarah making conversation with Jill like they'd known each other for years.

"It originated in Mexico," Julia said. She didn't look up from her menu.

"No way!" I challenged. It sounded so Italian.

"Really?" Sarah asked, even though her tone lacked enthusiasm.

"By an Italian man named Caesar Cardini in the 1920s," Julia stated. She was so calm, so cool, and such a know it all, which made sense. I eyed her suspiciously.

"It's my favourite salad." She shrugged.

Mine too , but she didn't need to know that.

Sarah knew, and she side-kicked me under the table.

"Ow." I scowled.

The food order was swift. I ordered the peanut sauce enchiladas for my main, followed by a Mexican chocolate brownie dessert; its flavour was a little bitter, and the cinnamon overpowered the cocoa, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

The majority of the conversation came from the top of the table. I hated being on the end. I felt so disjointed, but I remained composed. I wouldn't allow our guests to know about the discomfort I felt in being bundled in the corner with nothing but Julia's deciding stare as company.

"So, Julia, what do you do?" Sarah asked politely .

I focused my energy on the stem of my second glass of wine.

"I'm a medical resident."

"Oh, cool," Sarah chimed. "I thought about being a doctor."

"You did?" I challenged. It was news to me.

"Yeah, when I was nine. I went fishing with my dad, and there was a dead fish; I felt really bad and told my dad I was going to be a doctor so next time I could save it." She shrugged.

"Not quite the same, but okay." I laughed. Sarah elbowed me in the rib. "Ow."

"She studied at Brown." Her dad beamed proudly.

Of course she did. I knew it. She was an Ivy League alum. I didn't know much about the American educational system other than what I saw on the TV, but even I knew the prestigious Ivy League universities and how low their acceptance rates were.

"Dad," Julia cautioned.

"What? You're so modest," he countered. Bob leant forwards on his elbows. "She's going to be a neurosurgeon," he announced to the table.

"Wow," Billie marvelled.

"A neurosurgeon, huh? Isn't that one of the hardest specialities to train in?" Sarah asked. All eyes were on Julia now. Everyone clearly found her fascinating. She was charismatic. I could admit that.

"It is one of the longest and most complex careers," she confirmed.

"It's about fifteen years, isn't it?" Billie asked. How did she know that? Billie and her never-ending fountain of knowledge.

Julia nodded. I imagined dedicating fifteen years of my life to a career and immediately felt inadequate knowing my job selling houses required little in the form of qualifications.

"She wasn't satisfied with being an orthopaedic surgeon like her old man. I knew she was destined for big things." Bob knocked back another whiskey on ice.

"Dr. Derek Shepherd, eat your heart out," Sarah joked.

Wherever possible Sarah tried to refer real life situations back to the hit ABC drama Grey's Anatomy because it was her life's goal to live vicariously through the characters. The last time I checked she'd binged the series for the eighth time.

"Flattered, but I don't want to go out that way." Julia shook her head.

Grey's Anatomy and its seventeen thousand seasons played on loop in the four years me and Sarah lived together, so I had no choice but to be aware of Derek Shepherd's death. The sobbing that erupted from Sarah's body was impossible to forget. The conversation was one I could participate in to a degree, but I felt compelled to stay quiet.

"Don't," Sarah put her hand up. "It still hurts my heart."

"You're so dramatic." I laughed. "I don't think it can compare to Love Island ."

Billie shot me the dirtiest of looks. I knew the topic would trigger her.

"Do not compare that trash TV to one of the greatest shows ever made." She was firmly in the camp with Sarah, although not as obsessive.

" Love Island is British TV at its finest, and you know it." I tried every year to not be as invested. I watched a group of single boys and girls flounce around in the sun like it was existential to my existence .

"I would rather have someone fry my eyeballs in a sizzling wok and then put them back in my head than subject myself to that programme," Billie expressed. Jill found it amusing; Bob had no idea what we were talking about.

"Julia? What's your opinion?" Sarah asked.

There was no way this Ivy League educated future saver of brains was wasting her rare free time watching Love Island .

"I have to agree with Harper."

No. Way.

"You watch Love Island ?"

"Religiously. It's a live topic of conversation at work," Julia said.

"Oh, like more than saving lives, or?" I joked, and immediately cringed. Why in God's name was I making a joke with Julia the ice queen of Icelandia.

"It's on par." She didn't laugh.

How did Bob and Jill, the world's nicest couple, produce her? It didn't make sense.

The conversation switched to excursions, as Bob and Jill talked us through their favourite trips, from ancient Mayan ruins to the mummy museum in one of the small colonial towns.

"Speaking of excursions, Julia has booked to go on one tomorrow, and she insists on going alone." Bob frowned.

"Dad, I'm twenty-nine years old, I don't need a chaperone."

I opened my mouth to speak, but Billie beat me to it. "Where are you going?"

"On a trip to release some baby turtles back into the ocean." A hint of excitement was detected in her answer. The tone of her voice elevated. The ice queen defrosted for a second.

"Baby turtles?" I wanted to clarify.

"Yes."

My eyes widened. I'd desperately wanted to see baby turtles ever since the disappointment of Cyprus four years earlier. I was promised a baby turtle experience, and I got nothing more than some empty nests and a sunburnt forehead.

"Harper has always wanted to see baby turtles!" Billie blurted.

There was way too much enthusiasm involved. I side-eyed her; my stern expression said, don't you dare , but she didn't understand. Or maybe she did, and she chose to ignore it, the more likely option.

"You should go with Julia," Billie suggested.

"Oh, no, that's not necessary—" If I could've kicked her I would've, but between me and Billie was Sarah, smirking to herself.

"You'd love it!" Billie added.

"I'm sure Julia doesn't want me tagging along."

"That sounds like a fantastic idea," Bob agreed. "It will make me feel better if you have a friend with you."

A friend . Pfft.

Bob was a lovely guy but a terrible reader of the room. Julia half-heartedly smiled at her dad and turned to me defeated.

"Okay, I'll see you in the lobby at eight fifteen." She hid the discomfort on her face with a large glass of red wine, and I slouched back in my seat. Billie returned to her conversation with Julia's parents. Sarah continued to text her latest flame under the table indiscreetly. the overwhelming number of emojis made my stomach curl .

Julia sipped her wine; with each sample her lips became more of a soft burgundy. Her supercilious gaze through half-lidded eyes watched me intently. I felt exposed like a fish in a glass bowl. Was she observing my body language? The superiorly educated surgeon was studying me like a new case, like a problem to be solved.

She was intense.

Too intense.

Her eyes softened, but no conversation was attempted. We merely glared at one another from across the table, willing to engage in conversation with anyone but each other. It was the most bizarre experience. I barely knew Julia, but I had created a picture in my head, a solid character profile with a disturbingly long list of cons. There had to be some pros other than her education and her remarkably strong eye contact.

I hated being a pessimist.

I can make this work, I told myself.

Or I could pretend I was ill. I had time to decide.