She shrugs, but then her eyes go wide. “Let’s do flashback music—like angsty, alternative rock. Do you like that?”
“I do,” I say. Yet another surprise. Since I already have my phone hooked up to the rental’s screen, I tap on the music app. “I have the perfect playlist for that if you want to scroll down while I drive.”
She scrolls, tilting her head, and mumbles different titles as I pull out of the lot.
“Pumping Iron Beast Mode,” she says. “Wonder what music you have on that.”
I chuckle wryly. “Death metal.”
She laughs too. “Oh, here it is—alternative rock 2000s. Kind of a boring name after the beast mode one.” She gives it a tap and a familiar intro kicks up.
We glance at each other while bobbing our heads. “Kryptonite,” we say in unison.
“I love 3 Doors Down,” Kirsten says.
“You’ll like this mix then. It’s got The Killers, Gorillaz, Green Day, Offspring.”
“I’ve seen most of those guys in concert,” she says.
We pull onto the freeway while I ask her which year and venue she saw each artist. We find that she and I were at many of the same concerts back in the day—yet another surprise. Trish and I have completely different tastes in music.
“Does Greg like this genre too?” I ask as a song from the Foo Fighters comes on next.
“Some of it,” she says thoughtfully. “He’s in love with Beyoncé. Not just music-wise. She’s his celebrity crush.”
“You guys don’t have that rule that if you get the chance to make out with your celebrity crush, then it’s okay, do you?” I ask.
Kirsten grins. “We do, and he even sent his business card to her, but I feel pretty confident that—even if shedidmake him her new accountant—the chances of Beyoncé making out with him are slim.”
I don’t want to think about the fact that the guy’s done more than make out with Trish, so I skip to the obvious question. “So who’syourcelebrity crush? Wait, let me guess. Leonardo Di Caprio? Brad Pitt?”
She shakes her head. “Jude Law.”
“Ah,” I tip my head back. At least she’s consistent. Jude Law isn’t exactly a beefcake type of guy, and neither is Greg.
“Who’s yours?” she asks.
“Catherine Zeta-Jones.”
“Oh, she’s gorgeous. If I was a guy, she’d be on my list for sure. What about Trish? Who’s hers?”
“She’s into all the obvious ones, but Zac Efron is her favorite.” Unless that’s changed. Perhaps she’s into actors that play dorky characters now. I want to know what that wimpy accountant has that I don’t. What’s the appeal? The question reminds me that Kirsten asked me something earlier.
“You wanted me to guess what you’ve been obsessing over the last few years of your life,” I say with a glance in her direction.
She takes a long sip of her drink and lifts a finger as she gulps. “Right,” she says. “My marriage, that’s what. Of course, I’m always trying to be the perfect parent, but I’ve been hyper-focused on becoming the perfect wife, focusing on all of Greg’s needs, trying not to guilt him for working so much and being gone so often and missing out on so much of Jack’s life.
“Turns out all Ireallyneeded to do was get a smaller waist, bigger boobs, and three-inch nails that make it hard to wipe my own butt.”
I picked the wrong time to tip back my drink because that final comment makes me spit out a mouthful of Gatorade.
“Sorry,” Kirsten says. “I don’t mean to be crude.”
Which means she knows it was crude.
She lets out a huge sigh, and I can almost feel the motivation seep out of her.
“When did I turn into someone he didn’t want anymore?”
