Eleven
“Did you even close your eyes last night?” Sam asks, scooping scrambled eggs onto our plates. As we move through the breakfast buffet line, I’m holding onto our tray like it’s a life preserver ring. I know I have to eat, for energy, but anxiety is cutting an angry waltz through my guts.
“Fruit?” His hand is mid swing from the bowl. I nod, soothed by the smell of pineapple and orange. He obliges, followed by buttered toast on both our plates. He grabs two glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice from the round table at the end of the buffet line, and then I follow him through the buzz of humanity to a spot near the window.
“God, this place is beautiful,” he says, sliding onto his chair. With full plates on the table before us, I chew slowly and indulge in a few moments to see this p
