“You get ten percent off your first purchase!” Chloe hands me a paper coupon with a smile. “We’ll say fifteen because you’re going to make Alban and Alain’s life easier, and that will make Harper and Ramona’s life easier, and they’re my book club gals.”
“Book club?”
Thoughts of wine, cheese, and glossy best sellers with lipstick and heels on the covers entice me.Women have book clubs and careers.
Oh my God. Is this it? Have I arrived?
I mean, it’s not the stop I expected, but I’mhere.
“Every Wednesday night at the White Pines Estate. We chip in a few bucks a week, and Claire and Georgia bring the goodies from The Pine Loft.”
“I love The Pine Loft.” It’s true. I do. I’m already addicted to their Cinnamon Streusel coffee.
“Do you like smutty books, too?” Chloe asks with a conspiratorial wink.
“I didn’t get into reading until lately, but I could be persuaded to try something smutty. It would be the first action I’ve had in the past three years,” I whisper back.
“Girl. Same. The good ones are hard to find.”
“Especially if you never leave your house.” I roll my eyes, taking a gentle jab at myself. I actually find it humorous for the moment, and it feels good.
“Or if you’re always at work,” Chloe sighs. “It’s me and Marmalade—my cat.”
“Oooh, I have been wanting a cat for years. I had one up until high school, but she passed away. I couldn’t have taken her with me in the dorms anyway, but...” I trail off. “A cat is on my list.”
It is. I have a list. I have a life. I think I have a new friend.
“Well, lonely, single cat lovers who read smut and suck at dating have to stick together. Twenty percent off. That mirror is yours for thirty.”
Oh, Idefinitelyhave a new friend. “I’ll take it!”
Chapter Three
Iput my books in the center of the coffee table which looks antique but isn’t. I sit on the couch (more like a settee, with its curving wooden legs and high back) and open up my sticker-covered laptop to send money back to Daddy and June.
I wince at the string of unopened emails from my mom and Arnie’s joint email account. June and Dad have a joint email as well as their personal ones. My mom only has this shared account with Arnie, though he has his private “work” email, too. I feel like I never know what words are hers and which are his when I read the notes—and lately, they all say the same thing.
How close are you to cracking?
Are you taking your meds?
Did you meet with a new therapist? The old one is a quack. They said you’re ready, but you’re not.
Come home, come home, come home.
