“Right.” Preston grinned. “That means that you gotta find someone to share those special times with. And you have to do it before Thanksgiving. Matter fact, you gotta do it well before Thanksgiving, so the chick is going to be really into you by the time of the holidays. You need to find yourself a yee.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Vivian interrupted. “A yee? Tell me now, what doesthatmean?”
I dropped my head into my hands. “Oh, this ought to be good.”
Preston, however, was undeterred. “A yee is a woman,” he said. “A woman who is everything. She’s the perfect package. You know, looks, brains, personality . . . she’s got it all. That’s a yee.”
“Ah.”
To my relief, when I glanced up through my fingers I saw that Vivian’s eyes were twinkling, and there was humor in her face.
“All right. I get that. I guess it’s not quite as completely sexist and derogatory as I was afraid it might be.”
“It’s totally respectful, I promise you.” Preston was earnest, leaning forward to assure Vivian of his sincerity. “I am a hundred percent on the feminist track here, my friend.” He squinted at her and cocked his head. “And you are totally . . . I can see that you used to be a yee. I mean, you know, before you hooked up and had the kiddo here. I bet you were a total yee.” He glanced at me. “She was, wasn’t she? She was a yee of yore.”
Now I could see that Vivian was trying not to laugh. “A yee of yore?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “That’s means that you’re still attractive, you’re still a catch, but somebody’s already caught you.”
“All right, then.” Vivian sat up a little straighter. “Got it. It’s important to understand the vernacular before anything else, I guess.”
“Yes, exactly.” Preston lifted his coffee, saluting her. “Cuffing season is what we call the months leading into the holidays. It’s when you want to find that special someone, and, you know . . . cuff yourself to her. Or him. We’re not exclusionary at all. And it’s not, like, literal handcuffs, though again, if you’re into that sort of thing, you do you, man. Follow your arrow.”
Vivian was silent for a moment—digesting all of this, I imagined, or maybe measuring the distance to exit and trying to figure out if she could maneuver the stroller out of the coffee shop before I stopped her.
But then as I watched her face, her eyes went wide and a huge smile curved her lips. She reached over and gripped my wrist.
“I have a fabulous idea.” Her excitement sang through her voice.
“Okay.” This time, it was my turn to be cautious. “And that idea is?”
She wriggled in her chair. “Do you remember me telling you how I got started with my column?” she asked.
A little bit of panic gripped me. I had some vague memories about how Vivian had gotten her big break. It had something to do with frogs, and guys, and maybe kissing, but I didn’t remember all the particulars.
“Well, sure,” I said, hoping that I sounded confident.
“I don’t know it,” Preston interrupted, and I could’ve kicked him under the table. “Tell me about it.”
“Uh,” I stalled, wondering if she expected me to do the telling, but happily, Vivian launched into the explanation herself.
“A couple of years back, I won a residency on a train. That means that I was invited to ride on AmeriRails trains for six months while writing about my experiences and posting the articles on their website. It was a promotional gig for the company, but it was also a huge honor for me.”
“Totally.” Preston nodded. “Riding the rails and writing about your adventures. It’s living the dream.”
“Yeah, well, you might think so. In reality, trains don’t always take the most scenic route, and the little sleeping cars—they’rereallylittle, almost claustrophobic sometimes. The food is so-so on most of the routes. And six months is a long time.”
The baby made a small noise, not quite a cry, but Vivian reached for the handle of the carriage and jiggled it a bit, until he was quiet again.
“When I came home from my residency, I found out that my life had basically imploded while I was away. My boyfriend had met someone else. My parents had sold their house and were taking off on an adventure of their own. My job, which was supposed to be held for me, had vanished, because the paper had been sold.”
“Awww,man.” Preston’s brows drew together in empathetic pain. “That’s cold. What did you do?”
Vivian shrugged. “I moved in with my aunt Gail, got a job at a pet grooming business, and tried to figure out what should happen next. In the course of that, I came up with the idea of going out on a series of first dates and writing about them—chronicling the reality of dating in the early twenty-first century. I called it Fifty Frogs, because Aunt Gail told me that I had to kiss fifty frogs before I found my prince.” She smiled, her expression the epitome of happy contentment. “Lucky for me, I met Charlie—my aunt’s neighbor—before I had to kiss that many frogs. We found our happy ending, and I was able to translate those stories into a long-term writing gig.”
“Oh, my God. You’re Vivian, aren’t you?TheVivian?” Apparently, while we’d been preoccupied, the barista shift had ended, and a new one had begun. The woman in the apron who stood just behind Vivian had silky black hair that reached just about to her shoulder, almond-shaped brown eyes and a pierced nose. She was slim, and the oversized tee she wore with her uniform black shorts and flowered apron emphasized that slenderness.
She also happened to be Sophia, my other best friend, along with Preston. I’d known her for a long time, but I’d never seen her fangirl like she was doing now.
