Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 117601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
She glances beyond the rim of her reading glasses and smiles. “Hello, Ever. Would you like me to fix you a cup of coffee? Maybe an omelet?”
I shake my head and grab a seat in front of her. She puts her newspaper down and sits back. “You look . . . thoughtful.”
“I have a lot on my mind,” I say, still unsure how I feel about her. My heart desperately wants to reject her, but every other part of me realizes that she is being very nice and supportive, and that no part of her has to be. I’m not a surly teenager. I’m on the cusp of twenty-five.
She taps the table between us. “Unload some of it here. I’m a good listener.”
I nibble on the side of my thumbnail, deciding that confiding in her is better than confiding in no one.
“I just called my best friend, whom I disappeared on six years ago. I’m seeing her at noon. At our favorite restaurant. I don’t even know what she looks like these days. I don’t know what she does for a living. If she’s married.”
“Good. You’ll have a lot to catch up on, so there won’t be any awkward silence.” Donna raises her coffee cup in a salute motion.
“She really tried to stay in touch. What if I disappoint her? What if she realizes that I’m not all that? What if she decides to stop hanging out with me?”
Donna smiles. “That is highly unlikely, but if that happens—you’ll survive it. Just like you’ve survived everything else life has thrown at you so far.”
It is a surprisingly good answer. Honest but still uplifting.
“Now, how about we go to Westfield and buy you a few outfits to choose from, so when you see her, you’ll look like a knockout?” Donna wiggles her shoulders.
“What’s wrong with how I look?” I ask, feigning innocence. I look like a mess. I’m wearing one of Renn’s shirts and torn yoga pants.
She doesn’t take the bait and doesn’t rush to apologize. “You look like you haven’t gotten out of bed in nearly two months. Which, for the record, is exactly what’s happened. Let’s go.”
“No thanks. You’re not my real mom.” I roll my eyes, joking.
“I don’t aim to be. I have my own children, and they keep me very busy. Come on now.” She stands up and carries the coffee mug to the sink.
“Can I come in my onesie?” I turn to look at her.
“Only if I can come in mine.” Donna rinses the coffee mug with a shrug.
“Is this a dare?” My eyebrows hit my forehead.
Donna gives me an innocent look. “I raised two boys. You don’t want to play this game with me. I will go there. In a heartbeat.”
“If you wear your onesie to Westfield, coffee’s on me,” I say.
“If you wear your onesie to Westfield, shopping’s on me,” she retorts. After a pause, she adds, “Three-hundred-dollar limit, though. The place is expensive.”
We shake on it. We both change into our onesies.
I race her to the car.
I win.
One shopping trip and a makeover later, Pippa is sitting in front of me at the restaurant. It is surreal. She is even more stunning than I remembered. She is wearing a sage summer dress. Her hair cascades all the way down her ass. She doesn’t have an engagement ring, but she does have a genuine Gucci bag, which was a lifelong ambition of hers.
“You look flawless,” I choke out.
“You look like a stranger, you asshole.” She squeezes my hand and orders us two cocktails. I’m guessing she is taking the BART and doesn’t have to drive. I Ubered it here, but I think I’m going to walk home. It doesn’t seem like she has plans for stopping at two or three drinks, and a girl has to save some money. Getting on the subway is not an option.
Pippa tells me that she is a web designer for a secondhand designer apparel site, which explains the Gucci bag. She lives with her boyfriend, Quinn, in Haight-Ashbury. When I congratulate her, she tells me that previously, she’s also lived with Bryan, Jason, and Dan, so maybe I shouldn’t be too excited.
“Is it not serious, then?” I ask, amused.
“It’s as serious as it can be this time of the year. I believe I have . . . twelve, maybe fifteen soulmates. So far I’ve only met seven, though.” Pippa giggles. “I knew Quinn was one of them when I brought him here and we both ordered the shellfish tower and champagne. I looked at him and thought: This man cannot sustain this lifestyle without getting rich. I’d better stick around.”
“Is he?” I laugh. “Rich, I mean.”
“He’s on his way there.” She sounds sure.
“What does he do?”
The food arrives. Pippa digs into her organic fried chicken, and I take a tentative bite of my burger. “He owns a nightclub in the Tenderloin.”