Page 1 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
1. Sunny Quits Coke
Ipicked the wrong day to quit doing Coke.
The fizzy, caffeinated drink has been my crutch for far too long. I run a health-centered destination spa, for goodness sake. I’m an otherwise health-conscious person. The habit is embarrassing, really.
This morning, my brilliant mind decided that since I have an entire film crew coming to the resort that I run with my brother, I should cut myself off from the one thing that keeps me functional. For my long-term health it’s a smart move, but right now my brain feels like a wadded up dishrag.
Soda isn't the only bad habit I'm trying to break today. I’m also not thinking about the fact that my lifelong celebrity crush, Micah Watson, is starring in the movie that's being filmed here. Meaning, he’s staying in one of our suites. And it’s time for me to give him up, because this isn’t the regular kind of celebrity crush that you can laugh about with friends. My family and friends don't know just how unhealthy my obsession has become. It's adult-woman-writing-our-names-together-in-my-journal bad. I am mature enough to admit that my infatuation has reached an unhealthy level, just notmature enough to take down the poster of him hidden behind the dresses in my closet.
In the ten years since Micah Watson and Anders Beck starred in their first paranormal love triangle blockbuster, the majority of the female world has been divided into two camps—Team Micah or Team Anders.
I’ve been staunchly Team Micah from day one. I secretly own the merchandise. To my everlasting shame, I’ve argued my stance with strangers online. Micah Watson is devastatingly tall, dark and handsome, but also trustworthy, stable, respectful to women, smart—everything Anders Beck is not. I will die a humiliating death on the Team Micah hill.
Like a bad habit, I’ve kept it a secret, a fact which will serve me well in the coming months of having to act normal. I’ve had years of experience hiding the extent of my obsession.
I’ve also signed about two hundred legal documents promising I'll be nothing but discreet and professional for the duration of filming, so I can kick the Micah Watson habit for a few months. Legally, I'm required to. I read the contracts. If I interpreted the jargon correctly, if this shoot goes south, all that will be left of our family-owned resort will be a few broken down golf carts and abandoned buildings while we duke things out in court. My job for the next few months is to cater to the needs of the film crew, lie low, and not fall deeper in love with Micah Watson. Easy peasy.
So, I'm not thinking about him at all. I'm not picturing his big, sculpted arms pulling open the front door any minute now, or his wavy, dark brown hair resting on one of our pillows tonight. I’m not thinking about it so hard that I’m sweating from every pore. I pull my blouse away from my chest to fan myself.Is it hot in here?
The crew is coming in waves, with Micah Watson—Eeek!—Anders Beck, the writer/director, the supporting cast, and all of their entourages supposedly arriving at 1:00, which was twenty-three minutes ago. I just need to get this first round of hoity-toity guestschecked in and settled. After that my brain won’t need to function at a high capacity for at least a few hours, when the production crew is scheduled to arrive.
Everything is ready for this non-event that I'm barely thinking about. I have soft music playing, essential oils diffusing in the air, and the fountains trickling. The rooms are immaculately appointed, and our staff is polished and lining the foyer like English house servants awaiting the king. I’m wearing a layer of makeup and my most professional-yet-perky pencil skirt and heels. I spent extra time straightening my long, dark hair. I don't normally dress like this for work, but today isn’t a normal day.
I have meticulously planned every detail to make things perfect for The Micah Watson—and the rest of the cast and crew, of course. My knee is bouncing under my desk like a jackhammer.
On my drive to work I noticed that even Mother Nature is trying to impress our celebrity guests: The sky outside is a perfect robin’s egg blue, contrasting with the coral sandstone cliffs that provide the backdrop of our destination resort. We had a rare rainstorm overnight, so the air smells fresh and the desert flowers are blooming. Everything is perfect. We just need our guests to arrive.
I drum my fingers on the white marble reception desk. This is a terrible time for a splitting headache and brain fog. My mind wanders to the vending machine in the employee break room. It’s stocked with cold bottles of Coke. If I had one now, it would have condensation dripping down the side. It would hiss when I twist off the lid. All I need is one sip. Fizz. Sugar. Caffeine. Happiness.Is my right eye twitching?
Maybe I have time to run down there and grab a drink? I look at the clock. I look at our employees, ready and waiting. What are the odds that our important guests will arrive in the three minutes it will take me to run to the breakroom and shotgun a Coke? I totally have time. I’m already kicking my Micah Watson habit cold turkey. That’s enough self-improvement for one day.
"Be right back."
I stride away from the front desk to the sound of Mercer's gasp behind me. My best friend leads guided hikes and gives welcome tours at the resort, and today is the most important day of her employed life. She looks even more stressed out than I feel, which is abnormal for her. Nothing fazes Mercer.
"Dude, where are you going?" her frazzled holler echoes down the wide, tiled corridor.
I can feel the eyes of our other employees on me. I'm their boss. They won't say anything. Mercer, on the other hand—
"If you leave me here alone and they walk through that door, you are dead to me."
“I won’t be long!” I call down the hall.
Less than two minutes later, I’m back at my post behind the front desk and my belly is full of cold, sparkling, heavenly cola. I can already feel the happy chemicals buzzing around my body. Instant improvement.
“See, I told you it would be fine,” I reassure Mercer with a glance at the clock. 1:29. They’re a half an hour late. This isn’t a big deal. Our guests arrive late all of the time. I’m not going to let it get to me.
It’s totally getting to me.
I don’t love this about myself—the obsessive need for everything to run on a precise schedule—but I can’t help it. I prefer predictability. Stability. All of the -ilities. I love organizing things to perfection, that way everything in my life functions smoothly and there are no surprises. I straighten my magnetic name tag, then drum my fingers on the marble counter again.
“Sunny Pratt!” Mercer hisses my full name like curse words, reaching across my desk and slapping a hand over mine to hold it in place. “Stop that! Your stress is contagious, man.” Her eyes are darting around more than usual.
“I’m not stressed, I just—”URP!
Did I just stress burp?Oh no. No, no, no.
I guzzled that Coke way too fast. I realize I am feeling a little queasy. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that soda on an empty stomach. In all of my hustle to prepare for our guests I had skipped lunch. I just need to eat a little something to settle my stomach.
