Free The Day Of The Wave by Becky Wicks Page B

it.'
    'Can't say I have. Do you get free food with that job?'
    'That's such a boy thing to say,' she says, laughing suddenly. I think the tiny sips of beer she's had must be going to her head. She has the same laugh I always loved and it's just as adorable. Memories are crashing over me now. 'But yes,' she continues, 'I get a lot of free food. I got the job through my godmother's connections, I was an intern for a long time, worked at another mag for a bit before they gave me a real job at Sweet Eats - you have to work your way up, you know?'
    'So, wait, why were you in Bangkok? It wasn't for that cookbook was it?'
    'That's the one. And the dinner you apparently missed,' she says, putting the brush down.
    I feel my eyes widen. 'That was supposed to be with you? Holy shit, that's weird.'
    'I know. I think she was trying to set us up,' Izzy throws me a look. I catch her gaze for a moment. I remember Chinda saying something now about me missing dinner with my wife. Crazy.
    'What about your books?' I ask as she looks away. 'You were always going to write novels.'
    Izzy sighs, pulling some clothes out of her suitcase and opening the closet. I drink my beer, sit on the bed, watch her move in the stream of sunlight pouring in through the open door. She folds each item carefully and I can't be totally sure but I think she's layering them up according to their colors.
    'I've started a few books. I have an idea for another one, one I really want to write,' she says. 'But it's kind of hard to start. Even harder now - the notes I made were in the book that just got nicked.'
    I scrunch up my face. 'Shit, sorry. What's it about?'
    'What do you think?' She cross back to the case, pulls out some nail polishes and three books. She lines the books up perfectly in a pile by the bed with their edges completely straight. 
    'The tsunami.' I say. 
    She sighs. 'I want to write it down, all of it, but I'm never really sure how to start,' she says, getting out what look like bath salts now. 'My boyfriend keeps telling me...' 
    Izzy pauses, looks at me. I can't help the look that must be on my face at her words; shock, amusement, maybe both? But who am I to say anything to that, anyway? I have a girlfriend.
    She's talking again, lining up the three bath salts in a row by the books. 'We were together four years.'
    'Were?'
    'We broke up, but it was more like a pause to see if that's what we really want. We had some... issues.'
    There's trepidation in her voice. 'Sounds complicated,' I say. I can't even contemplate being with anyone four months , let alone four years. For some reason I'm trying to imagine what he might be like, this guy, probably in London somewhere. Probably some successful accountant or banker, or whatever city people do behind desks all day to afford those debt-fuelled, cooped up 'enviable' lifestyles. 'What's his name?' I ask.
    'Colin,' she replies somewhat wearily, putting what looks like a red dress on a hanger in the closet between a red shirt and a pink shirt, and shutting the door. She walks back to the porch, picks up the beer and I follow her, sit in the other chair. I look at the outline of her slim figure and shapely legs as she rests on the railings, facing me with the afternoon sun behind her. 'How long have you been with Kalaya?' she asks.
    I rake a hand through my hair. 'Not so long.' 
    'She seems nice.'
    'She is. She's really nice.'
    Izzy's silent for a moment. I can feel her eyes on me as I roll my bottle between both my palms. 'There were loud Americans on the bus,' she says eventually. I grin, looking up. I pretend to be shocked. 
    'I don't know how that's possible. I mean, I don't know how you could've heard them over the loud British people.'
    'Brits aren't loud, we're very quiet and conservative,' she says, smirking. 
    'Not after twenty shots of vodka and a bucket,' I tell her. 'It's always the Brits who throw up first. Then the Aussies. Then the Swedes, God bless 'em. The Russian's don't vomit.'
    She raises