The Art of Starting Over

Chapter 3 - Flats It Is

"Il-aħwa, how hungry you were. Mela, you didn't eat anything today? Did you want some more?" Millie urged as I scooped up the last drops of soup from my plate.

"No thanks, Nann, I'm full." Her smile faltered, so I added quickly, "But it was lovely!"

Typical Maltese nanna. She loved to cook, loved to eat, and, more importantly, she loved to cook for people who loved to eat.

Millie filled the sink with soap and water, gently humming along to the old Maltese tune coming from the radio. She had just turned sixty-two, but I'd be damned if she looked a day older than fifty-five. She was a tiny woman with a pretty face and blond hair, though Ramona, the local hairstylist, helped her with that. She kept it cut just above the shoulders and pinned back neatly with bobby pins. Her skin was flawless and peachy, a feat Sosa envied and complimented her on every time she came over. But more than that, the woman oozed confidence and warmth. There was a glow about her that made me wonder whether she knew something the rest of us didn't.

"So, Paceville on a Friday?" she mused, inspecting the plate in her hands for any remaining scraps of food.

"Sosa needs a Rebound Night."

I didn't need to elaborate any further. If she had heard our stories once, she'd heard them a thousand times. Our Rebound Night wasn't about finding someone new to get over an ex. On the contrary, the goal was to remember that you didn't need a man to be happy. It was a celebration of girl power and flaunting what your mama gave you.

Was it dramatic? Most definitely. But it was also fun.

Millie sighed. "There's always something going on with that girl, isn't there? It's like she can never settle down."

"She'll be alright, Nann. She's strong," I assured her, getting up to help her dry the dishes and put them back in their place.

***

Wrapped in a large towel, I stared at the open wardrobe, already regretting my decision to go out. I reluctantly slipped into a tight red mini-dress and threw a sleeveless denim vest over my shoulders. I twisted my hair up into a messy bun again. There was no point washing it. By the end of the night, it would smell like a smoker's moustache anyway.

I applied my favourite red matte lipstick and returned to my wardrobe, this time scanning through my small range of shamefully expensive heels.

Ugh. Not tonight, boys.

I closed the wardrobe and dug out a pair of brown flat sandals from under my bed.

Please, forgive me.

I snapped a picture of my feet and sent the message to Sosa. As expected, she replied within seconds.

Pls don't tell me you're wearing slacks and a T-shirt!!!!

I smiled to myself. The girl knew me too well. I took a selfie in the mirror, shaping my lips into a pout. My phone buzzed again.

Oh! You look hawt!!! Flats it is.

Great. Let the show begin.

***

An hour, and half a bottle of vodka, later, Sosa and I were in a smoky bar having a heated discussion over the loud music.

"Are you serious?" my best friend exclaimed, eyes wide open and both arms raised above her head. "How can you not like pastizzi? You've been in Malta for over four years, you have Maltese blood coursing through your veins, and you're telling me you don't have an instant orgasm just thinking about the golden, divine, crispy goodness with that soft, velvety interior?"

I almost spat a mouthful of vodka orange in her face. "Ew, Sos, that's disgusting!"

"What about tal-irkotta?" she prompted without batting an eye.

"Ricotta? Well, I guessed I prefer them to pea cakes, but no, I can't say they trigger an instant... uh... orgasm."

"Qow maj Godd," she groaned, pulling at her face. "I do not understand you, woman!"

I rolled my eyes, secretly wishing I could get that excited about anything... or anyone.

"Okay, drink up! You need to get me on the dance floor before I start going on about Derek," Sosa announced.

Ah, yes. Derek.

I took a look around. The bar was full of pre-party drinkers, but everyone seemed absorbed in their own conversations. The music was loud, providing the perfect cover for the outburst that was bound to happen, so, since she had brought him up, I decided we might as well get it out of the way.

"So, what happened exactly?" I asked casually.

Sosa gave me a familiar don't go there look.

"No, you have to get this out of your system," I insisted. "Otherwise, you'll start screaming at the first guy who tries to dance with you tonight." Which was practically inevitable, considering the figure-hugging, cleavage-baring dress she was wearing.

"What? I will not!" But an evil grin spread over her face at my knowing look.

"You're an aggressive drunk," I told her with all the love in my heart. "Remember when we went out after you had that argument with your dad and that poor bloke bought you a drink? What was his name?"

"Joey something..."

"Whatever. You started yelling in his face so loudly that security thought he and his mates were trying something funny, and they all got kicked out of the club."

Minutes later, she had started crying uncontrollably in the middle of the dance floor and vomited all over my new shirt. But there was no reason to bring that up. Judging by the way she was visibly shrinking in front of me, the memory was just as fresh in her mind as it was in mine.

"Okay. You're right." She put down her cup and poured herself another drink — two parts vodka, one part orange juice. "Mela, we didn't have anything planned yesterday, but at about seven in the evening, the douchebag texted me asking if I'd like to meet up." Pausing for effect, she took a long drag from her neon-pink straw and grimaced at the strong drink. "He was outside the house about half an hour later. I climbed into the car and waited for him to drive off, but he didn't move. He just looked at me, hekk, nervously, and I realised something was wrong, hux! Then he just blurted it out." She lifted her right hand in front of her face, the pads of her fingers and thumb touching, and pretended to talk through it like a sock puppet. "I don't think we should date anymore," she mimicked in a whiny voice that sounded nothing like Derek's dry tone.

She rolled her eyes and, ditching the straw, chugged down the rest of her drink. I poured the remaining vodka into my cup before she could down that too. Her eyes were already slightly manic and out of focus.

"Did you ask why?" I pressed.

"Mhux ovvja li I did!" she yelled, exasperated. "He said we were moving too fast and that he wasn't looking for anything serious and that he didn't want me to get attached, blah, blah, blah... I mean, come on!" She picked up the vodka bottle and, realising it was empty, slammed it back on the table. "Me? Get attached? How dare he say that? He might've been the closest thing to perfection I've ever dated... but still! Who does he think he is? He could've found a decent excuse, but noooo. He made it about me. Like it was my fault. Like he was doing me a favour. What an arsehole!"

She pointed a finger dangerously at me and lowered her voice. "I am done with men. I will be celibate. Just like you, Ally. I am just going to work and dance and go to the beach and if anyone — ANYONE," her voice shot up three octaves, "ever tries to get in the way of that again, they can just go f—"

"OKAY!" I stopped her right there. People had been staring since she announced that I was celibate. "I think that's enough getting Derek out of our system for tonight. Let's go dance!"