Page 21 of Babydaddy To Go

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Grams promises. “Have fun. I can’t wait to hear how your pasta turns out! You’ll have to make homemade pasta for us when you come home.”

I tell her I will and we hang up. Once again, the silence surrounds me. The temptation to text Nate and ask him what today was all about is real, but I delete his number from my phone instead.

Unfortunately, I’ve already memorized the pesky ten digits. If I wanted to put it back in my contacts, I could.

The clock is nearing dinner time and my stomach growls. The leftover tacos sit uneaten in the fridge. Just thinking about eating them reminds me of Nate, and I don’t want that.

I could cook something else, but I’m not feeling up to it. I’m too depressed to set foot in another kitchen today. After everything Nate said about my steak, I’m not even sure I should be cooking dinner. Am I really that bad? Have my friends and family been lying to me all these years? I don’t think they would do that, but people do a lot of things for the people they love. Didn’t I just lie to my grandmother so she wouldn’t worry about me?

My apartment is stifling. I don’t even want to order delivery. Instead, I just need to get out of here.

Nate wasn’t the only one who told me New York has amazing food options. I want to try the pizza, the bagels, and everything else this city has to offer. I can’t do that if I hide in my apartment.

The early fall air is a bit chilly, so I change into long sleeves and jeans. I’m glad to be out of my ridiculous chef’s uniform. It’s stiff and uncomfortable. I’m going to need to wash it before tomorrow, because it’s sweaty from my run to class, too. I was lucky to find an apartment that came with a washer and dryer in my unit. This place is worth its high cost.

New York is alive when I exit my apartment. Unlike this morning’s traffic free excursion, the streets are packed with people making their way home from work or tourists looking for the next family-friendly thing to do.

I join the masses walking towards the central part of the city. The sun is still high in the sky but it’s falling quickly. I might have to take a taxi back to my apartment later. I’ve read enough to know that a young girl shouldn’t be walking home by herself late at night.

My neck hurts as I strain to see the tops of the tall buildings. The closest major metropolitan area to my Maine town is Boston, and I’ve only been there a couple times. Besides, compared to New York, Boston is a short city. There are skyscrapers, but it’s nothing like this.

A savory aroma distracts me from my gawking. Every year on my birthday, my grandparents and I go to this one storefront in town that serves Middle Eastern food. It’s my favorite restaurant in the world. The street I’m walking smells just like that place – it reminds me of home.

I find the origin of the delicious smell. It’s a small vendor truck parked on the corner of 53rd street. On a spit enclosed in glass, the chefs have lamb, beef, and chicken turning, ready to be shaved. My mouth waters just looking at it.

“This looks incredible,” I tell the older woman working in the truck. “I love shawarma.”

She smiles gently at me.

“Would you like a sample?”

I nod my head, grinning.

“I’ll take lamb and beef. I can tell by the smell that it’ll be delicious.”

She wields her knife and slices thin strips of meat from the spinning pieces. Each piece is rolled up like a cone and placed into a paper container lined with pita bread.

“Would you like any toppings?” she asks.

“Tahini and hummus?”

“You know your shawarma.”

I tell the kind woman about the restaurant back home. She reminds me a lot of the owner of that place, in fact. They both have sweet smiles and friendly demeanors.

“Are you always at this location?” I ask. “I just moved to the city and I don’t know much about the area, but I’ll definitely be coming back.”

“We have this location and one other in Queens. We’re always here, so you’ll be able to visit any time you want.”

I take a bite of the shawarma and moan. “Absolutely delicious,” I tell her. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Thank you!” she calls after me.

Next to the shawarma truck is another vendor. They line this street, each serving something unique. Everything looks delicious. I’ll have to try them all eventually.

What would it be like to join these people? I could own a truck. I could serve my alfredo sauce. Pasta isn’t the easiest street food to eat, but I could do something unique with it. Maybe put it in garlic bread cones?

No, I think.That’s not me.