But the more gut churning answer is that she never went to bed. Maybe she went to the Hideaway, maybe with her brother. Maybe she met someone there and danced the night away with a woman who was beautiful and funny. A woman who knew where she stood. Someone strong.

The rational part of my brain knows this is absurd. If Amy were out with someone else, why would she text me at 3am:

I think you should make this for Camilla.

Followed by photos of a smorgasbord of quintessential Boston cuisine: Boston baked beans, clam chowder, lobster roll.

All good, delicious food. But food that isn’t me. Or even really us. And by us, I mean Amy & May’s because we are not anything. My thumbs hover over the screen, ready to argue that this is our chance to set ourselves apart when plenty of restaurants will take this traditional route. I think.

Maybe...she’s right? Maybe we should just do something classic, something expected even, and do it well. But I don’t know if I can do it well. I haven’t made a lobster roll since before Pop-Up Kitchen. What if I can’t even do right by the classics? I’ll be run out of Boston for sure. At this point, I’d go willingly.

I mull over our menu options all the way to the gym. I don’t have much time left to choose. Filming begins tonight. Just prep shots, interviews. Paul said Camilla would be here for a meet and greet and I’m excited enough about shaking her hand that if I think about it for too long, I might throw up. I’m thankful for the loud clank of the weights, the heavy metal playing over the speakers, the smell of chalk mixed with underlying but constant sweat, at the gym. It’s a perfect distraction for my nerves, and the perfect place to get rid of all this excess energy. I can shut my brain off and just lift, just run, just feel like my heart might explode out of my chest, my lungs might shrivel up into raisins. Feeling like I’m going to die in a controlled panic attack is—strangely—usually very helpful for moments like this.

Except for today, when I can’t lift even close to my former max. My stitches are out but my hand throbs, weak and sore, every time I wrap my fingers around a bar. I keep asking my body, telling it, to go harder, faster, waiting for my muscle memory to take over and just go. But it’s like trying to start a gas stove without a spark. There’s nothing there. I’m running on empty and by the end of my session with Natalie, I’m frustrated, exhausted, and close to tears.

“Why don’t we stop?” She turns down the music, stopping the timer on the giant digital clock hanging on the wall.

“No,” I say, preparing for another deadlift, even as my legs shake.

She puts her foot over my bar. “You’re not in the right headspace today. That’s okay. You’re not always going to be.”