Dream On: A Rom Com

Zorbaki

LUCY

"Hurry up and park," I say, getting a smirk from Deon, who's almost-famous for taking an extraordinary amount of time finding the perfect parking spot for his 1963 split- window Stingray.

"Go," he says. "There's nothing around here so I'll park and meet you inside." I swing my legs out of the car, and climb the stairs to the deck of Zorbaki the Greek taverna owned by Phoebe's parents It overlooks a cozy inlet facing a small beach, a dreamscape of a setting. Romantic yet family-friendly, an unusual combination. The briny scent of the sea mixes with the sound of the waves, gently lapping on the rocks framing the beach below.

The deck is deserted, umbrellas closed, uninviting. Everyone is inside, and as I approach, my stomach twists. For a second I consider going around the back and slipping in the building from the kitchen.

My gaze takes in the cafe tables, crowded together. Strangers, dozens of them at tables for two, chairs crammed back to back, the atmosphere strained, unreal. The opposite of party-like.

The festivities haven't yet started. It's five o'clock in the afternoon and all I have to look forward to is ice cream and ice breakers. Dozens of ice breakers, one for each stranger.

Phoebe, in red, is chatting to a woman in shorts and a flowy top the color of a ripe mango. The woman must have true confidence, wearing shorts to this event, but as I approach I realize she's half our age and can afford to flaunt those endless legs. Wait twenty-five years and we'll see if you wear shorts to your next ice cream social. Phoebe's probably telling her right now how cute she looks. And she'd be right.

I am not myself, not myself at all. What is wrong with me?

"Lucy?" It's Phoebe's mom, Alexandra, standing by the bar. Phoebe trots over wearing an apologetic smile.

"You started? You started early?" My voice carries accusation, but the shock of this dating event starting early in my best friend's restaurant, where she is presumably in control, is too much.

"Everyone was here and the ice cream was melting," Phoebe says in a low voice.

"We weren't here."

"The ice cream was melting and my parents were fighting."

Alexandra has wandered over. "Is coming, Deon?" Years earlier, she took English at the local high school and practiced on her customers, who were happy to help.

"Parking. I'll text him," and I pull out my phone, then call instead, stepping back out onto the deck, wanting to be away from the curious crowd.

"What? I'm on my way," Deon says, breathing hard into the phone.

"Hurry," and I hang up.

"One woman was a no-show," Phoebe says, coming out to the deck, "or she's running late." Her eyes dart here and there, as if she's afraid she'll miss something. "We have to start, Deon or no Deon."

I'm thinking of running down to the beach, a wealth of photo ops, but take a look at Phoebe's expression, the stiff jaw, tense shoulder muscles, and nix that idea.

"Who's the young woman in the shorts?"

"Thank God for Bronwyn. I had to practically wrestle my mother to the ground on that one. She's so worth the money we're spending."

Her eyes widen, and I turn as Deon bounces up the stairs to the restaurant, a blonde woman in wobbly strappy sandals at his side.

"Sorry I'm late," they say in unison, then look at each other and burst out laughing.