Page 117 of Fangirl
“No, yeah—it’s beautiful.” I glance toward the ocean-drenched patio, already feeling the sunlight on my skin.
He starts to lead me out, but I hesitate. “Actually, do you think we could get a table under one of the umbrellas? I’m sorry—it’s just some of my meds make me really sun-sensitive.”
Jake stops immediately. “Yes. Absolutely. We can head back inside if that’s better?—”
“No, no. It’s fine,” I say quickly. “A bit of shade, and it’s perfect.”
“You’re sure?”
I smile, settling into the warmth of his concern. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
We sit. A server hands us menus, all hand-pressed linen with gold lettering, like we’re about to order sacred scrolls, not breakfast.
Jake leans back, sunglasses on, looking effortlessly Hollywood. Meanwhile, I open the menu and nearly choke on my own tongue.
Sun Blush—grapefruit juice—sun-kissed and poured over ethically sourced ice—$24.
Avocado toast with smoked sea salt & truffle honey—$28.
Charcoal-infused coconut yogurt parfait with wild-foraged berries & bee pollen—$24.
Matcha-chia soufflé bowl, topped with artisanal granola, rose petals & spirulinapearls—$26.
And my personal favorite: Zen garden omelet, made with duck eggs, shiso leaves, heirloom tomatoes… and intentions—$29.
I blink. Intentions. Like a side of optimism, maybe?
I can’t help it. I let out an actual, audible scoff.
Jake peeks over the rim of his sunglasses. “Is it okay?”
I drop the menu onto the table and give him a look. “Do you actually come here?”
He pauses, then smiles just a little too late. “Sometimes. With producers. Clients.”
Not for fun, I think, but I don’t say it.
He leans forward like he’s trying to read me. “Would you rather do something else?”
Yes.
But I smile instead. “Let’s just eat. I’m starving. I want that… omelet of intention.”
He laughs, easy and warm, and the tension melts for now.
“You don’t like it,” he says as he spoons his yogurt parfait—charcoal-infused, topped with what looks like a petal and a prayer.
If this is his idea of indulgence, I’m not sure how he’ll ever survive our carb-on-carb Indian takeaway nights back in London.
Yes, please, I’ll have the rice, the chips, and the naan, preferably while wearing fluffy socks and binge-watching some murder mysteries.
“I likeyou,” I say instead, stabbing my zen garden omelet like it insulted my family. “The food? Jury’s still out.”
He chuckles again, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. A shift. Like maybe he’s finally starting to see it. That this world of curated dishes and private coastal spots doesn’t quite fit me.
“I just wanted to take you somewhere nice,” he says, quieter this time.
And I get it. I really do.
