Me: I’m not in Milan, but I think I’m still in Italy. Is Baghdad in Italy?
Cap: LENA!
Me: Jesus, I’m kidding. Relax. I’m in Italy.
Cap: YOU BETTER NOT HAVE GONE OFF ON A SEX HOLIDAY WITH SOME FUCKING ITALIAN IDIOT. I SWEAR TO GOD, I WILL COME TO ITALY MYSELF AND FIND YOU.
God, he is really getting way too easy to rile in his old age.
It makes me grin.
And I didn’t go off with an Italian idiot, so that’s good.
Still, I’m not crazy, so rather than divulging the details of the sexy make-out session I had with an American, I gloss over it all with a little bit of sisterly manipulation.
Me: Chill, bro. I’m fine. I’m safe. And I guess I’m lucky to have a protective big brother like you.
Cap: You’re damn right, you are.
I roll my eyes before typing out another message.
Me: Please, if you could just remind me what I’m forgetting in Vicky’s hangover cure, you can go back to sleep next to Ruby and forget this inconvenient conversation ever happened.
Cap: Bloody Mary, OJ, Ibuprofen, pancakes, bacon, and red ginseng.
Me: AH! The ginseng! How the hell I could forget the torture of Vicky singing her Chinese medicine-inspired nursery rhyme is beyond me.
Cap: That’s probably a question only your therapist can answer.
Me: HA! Thank you. Tell Ruby I say hello and that we should totally have her bachelorette party in Italy because the men are fine as hell.
Ruby is my brother’s fiancée and my soon-to-be sister-in-law.
And since she just graduated law school, the wedding planning has finally commenced. Fingers crossed, she lets me plan her bachelorette party just so I can drive my brother nuts.
Cap: I hate you.
Me: Love you too, Cappy!
I toss my phone down on the couch and make a quick call to room service for the supplies. It’s a job and a half trying to explain the red ginseng—both what it is and my need for it—but hey, by the time I hang up, I’m a full thirty-percent confident I’ll get it.
Totally worth it, right?
A groaning, moaning growl starts up in Pippa’s bedroom, and I smile to myself. The Walking Dead season premiere, Italian edition, is now in progress.
“You okay, Pip?” I call out as the groan turns into a keening wail.
By the time she makes it to the living room, a slow wheeze rivaling my late Grandpa Harvey who had COPD rattling with every breath, she’s on her hands and knees. “Bloody hell, I think someone crawled into my mouth and died.”
Ah, the sweet sounds of a drunken fool waking up with a hangover.
“Good morning, beautiful.” I grin, and she groans, falling to the fetal position on the terra-cotta-colored tile floor.
“What happened last night?” she asks and puts her head in her hands. “And why does my mouth taste like black market cigarettes and bad decisions?”
“Because you made quite a few of them last night.”
“So, this is what hungover feels like.”
“Yep,” I say, turning down the volume on the TV and tossing the remote back onto the small coffee table. “But don’t worry, friend. I’ve already ordered you the perfect hangover cure.”
“Wow. They have phone-order brain-removal surgeons here in Italy?”
“Nope.” I laugh. “But room service is bringing coffee, pancakes, bacon, biscuits, orange juice, and ibuprofen. And maybe red ginseng if my number comes up in the lottery.”
“I think if I try to eat anything, I’ll literally throw up my stomach.”
“Just trust me, you little tequila lover. There’s a six-step system, and once you complete it, you’ll be well on your way to recovery.”
“Bloody hell, you’ve ordered me an AA sponsor?”
I laugh. “That’s twelve steps, honey.”
By the time Pippa scrapes herself off the floor enough to slither her way to the couch like that dead girl in The Ring, room service is knocking on the door.
I jump up to answer it with an agility that makes Pippa give me the finger and open it to a nice gentleman who wheels a cart over to one end of the sofa. I’m signing the receipt and adding some tip information when Pippa gets a good look at the contents.
“What in the hell is a Bloody Mary doing on this cart?” she asks, hiding her mascara-smeared eyes behind her hands. “Make it go away! Dear God, make it go away!”
“Relax,” I say, making an apologetic face to the waiter as he scuttles out the door, horrified. Door closed, I crush some red ginseng, dust it into the drink in question, and hold it out to my suffering friend. “Just keep your eyes closed, hold your nose, and drink this sucker down like you’re bonging a beer.”
“I’ve never bonged a beer, Lena!” she shrieks, shaking her blond hair with faux rage and then grabbing the sides of her head in regret.
I hide my smile behind my hand until I can get it under control.
“Okay, then, suck it down like you were sucking down tequila last night.”
She groans. “Never say that word again.”
“What word? Tequila? Surely, you don’t mean tequila.”
“Lena,” she cries.
“Fine. Fine,” I say and bite my lip to hold back my laughter. “I won’t say that word again, but I’m not going to leave you alone until you down this Bloody Mary, drink the orange juice, take the ibuprofen, and eat at least one pancake and two slices of bacon.”
“God save the chuffing Queen. Why are there so many things to do right now?”
“Because it’s the only way to prevent you from spending the day on the sofa.”
“That plan doesn’t sound bad.”
I plop down on the couch and nudge her with my elbow. “We’re on vacation, Pip! There’s no way I’m going to let you spend it holed up in the hotel room with a raging hangover.”
“God, I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. You just think you do. But after you do this, you’re going to love me forever and ever, amen. I promise.”
She groans. Sighs. Groans again.
And then she opens her eyes, a fighting light making them glow like freaky blue orbs, downs the Bloody Mary like a champ, and digs into the breakfast accoutrement like Diamond Jim Brady.
“Thattagirl,” I say, chancing the safety of my fingers by reaching in front of her to grab a pancake and a piece of bacon for my plate. “I’m so proud of you.”
She glares. “If I puke this back up, I’m going to make sure I spray it around the room like a firehose to ensure your suffering.”
“You won’t. Promise.”
We both move to the sofa with our pancakes and bacon to finish eating, and it isn’t until we’re almost done that Pippa’s previously blacked-out memories start to trickle in.
“Why do I feel like I need to go to confessional?”
“Probably because you’ve taken up a life of petty crime.”
“What?”
I count off her loot on my fingers. “The DJ’s microphone. Bar glasses. Freaking hand soap. Someone’s hat. You stole a bunch of stuff last night, and I honestly have no idea why.”