Chapter 18
Lucy was buckling her booster seat after camp pickup when my phone rang.
“Can you believe what’s happening?” Harper said before I could say hello.
As that infernal article continued to rack up reshares on Monday, BookTok had looked at the rest of social media and said, “You think that’s going viral?
Hold my beer.” In the span of forty-eight hours, hundreds of twentysomethings had posted TikToks of themselves sobbing over my book, which had spawned video after video of young women sharing their stories of heartbreak and how my book—and I, personally—had restored their faith in love.
As I was leaving the office, Bronwyn had forwarded not one, but three gushing reviews from major daily newspapers calling Love You to Mars and Back “the feel-good story of the year,” “the book everyone needs this summer,” and my favorite, for obvious reasons: “A love story written in the stars!”
“I spoke to Bronwyn and her boss, Emily, this afternoon,” Harper said. “They’re thrilled. They’re planning to commit significant marketing resources. We’ll get an updated plan on Monday.”
Things were moving at a dizzying pace. I knew it was good news, but all my overloaded brain could absorb was the word Monday. The day that was three days after our family dinner with Max. And two days after moving day.
“I think we have a real hit on our hands,” she continued. “Your rankings have skyrocketed. We’ll get the indie data in a few days, but if this keeps up for the rest of the week . . .”
She trailed off without saying it because of jinxes and all that. Apparently I wasn’t the only superstitious person on this call. But the implication was clear: I had a shot at The New York Times bestseller list, just like my fictional protagonist Tallulah in Love You to Mars and Back.
Once again, my life was imitating my art. If this trend kept up, I would never traffic in dark scenes again. I would become the princess of romance and happily ever afters. A beach-read titan.
When we ended the call, I turned on the car and recognized the opening notes of “Fearless,” one of my all-time favorite Taylor Swift songs.
I pulled out of the parking lot, a smile blooming across my face as I listened to the lyrics.
I’d been through too much to ever again feel that youthful fearlessness Taylor was singing about, but I was more than OK with that.
I was a mom to the sweetest little girl in the world.
I was on the cusp of maybe, possibly, becoming a bestseller.
I was moving into my own apartment. And, as Taylor’s voice skittered over the instruments and the beat, it hit me: For the first time since I met Sam, I was imagining someone other than him as the boy in that song.
It was 8:17 p.m. on Thursday when I realized Sam The Dog had devoured an unauthorized second dinner consisting of a box of packing peanuts.
I was no math genius, but after a quick visual comparison of the volume of peanuts ingested versus the size of his stomach, it was undeniably “go” time.
As in, go to the veterinary ER. For obvious reasons, I didn’t relish confessing my carelessness to Rebecca, so I sent an SOS to Frannie asking if she could stay with Lucy.
When she didn’t answer immediately, I was left with no choice but to summon the newly crowned Queen of the Disapproving Glares.
An hour later, Frannie plopped into the seat beside me as the vet tech was asking what type of packing peanuts Sam The Dog had eaten.
“Um, the kind you pack fragile items with when you’re moving?” I said.
Her steely-eyed gaze told me it was the wrong answer, and also probably that I didn’t deserve to be a pet owner. “Were they Styrofoam, or biodegradable and compostable?”
“I’m not sure?” Fortunately, I’d grabbed a few of the remaining peanuts on my way out the door. I reached into my tote bag and handed her one. “Does this help?”
She held one up to her nose and sniffed, then bit off a corner and sucked on it, which was, truthfully, a bit alarming. “Biodegradable. Made from corn.”
“That’s good, right?” I said hopefully.
She held out her hand for the leash. “I’ll report back when we know more.”
I turned to Frannie. “Thanks for coming.” I leaned on her shoulder, exhausted from the emotions of the week.
“I came as soon as I could,” Frannie said. “Had to ditch my date. He was giving off creeper vibes, so I was happy for the excuse. Is Rebecca with Lucy?”
I answered her with a shudder.
“Still hasn’t forgiven you for the move, huh?” Frannie asked.
“Not exactly,” I scoffed. “I’m so worried about dinner tomorrow night. Ugh, I can’t believe Max said yes. Talk about bravery. What if she’s monstrous to him?” I lifted my head and turned to face her.
“I’d be more concerned that he’ll blow it off,” Frannie said.
“He’ll be there.” From Frannie’s perspective, Max hadn’t made time to meet her yet, so I understood why she was dubious. Thankfully, Frannie had also accepted my invitation to dinner, so the two of them would finally be in the same room.
“I hope so.” Frannie fidgeted with the strap of her favorite “date purse.” “Because if he doesn’t show, you’ll never hear the end of it from Rebecca.
And personally, I’d also like to lay eyes on the guy and assess him for myself.
In my experience, if a guy seems too good to be true, he’s usually lying about something.
I don’t know any guy who would be willing to forgo sex for weeks because he’s got roommates. What if he’s married?”
I shivered at the chilling thought. “I’ve been married,” I said. “I could probably tell if he was married. Right?”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Frannie said. “You married your college boyfriend. Trust me, the adult dating world is full of liars, creepers, and cheats. Why do you think I’m sitting in an animal ER right now?”
“Fine. I’m pretty confident he’s not married,” I said, as much to convince myself as Frannie. “There’s no tan line on his ring finger. I have looked.” I narrowed my eyes. “Where’s this new suspicion coming from?”
“I don’t know,” Frannie said with a shrug.
“When you first met him, it seemed plausible that the astronaut thing was a really unlikely coincidence. I think I was so happy you were interested in someone that I may have let my enthusiasm cloud my judgment. But now I have a weird feeling. I have nothing to support it. Something just seems a little off.”
“Look, I know the whole thing is a bit strange. I’m not blind to it.
But I also think this relationship could be pretty special.
Is it possible your radar is off this one time?
I mean, I know you’re obsessed with me going out with Hot ER Doc.
Maybe that’s what’s clouding your judgment now?
” I elbowed her playfully. “I know, why don’t you go out with him? ”
“Yeah, right.” Frannie laughed, and this time, she dropped her head onto my shoulder. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“It means the world to know that you’re watching out for me. It makes me feel safe, and I do hear you. But I’m also hoping you’ll feel a whole lot better about the situation after you spend time with him tomorrow night. So maybe we revisit this once you have more data?”
“Promise?” Frannie asked.
“Good news,” the vet tech interrupted. “No obvious signs of obstruction on the X-rays, so we induced vomiting. He regurgitated voluminous amounts of material, so it’s great you brought him in.
Make sure to keep him hydrated for the next few days.
” Then she held out the bill. “You can take this up to the desk. I’ll bring Sam out shortly. ”
“Sam The Dog,” I automatically corrected as I took it, earning me another dubious glance.
Then I looked at the total and gasped: $856.
33. Even more absurd was the diagnostic code they assigned to it: treatment for dietary indiscretion.
As if I’d been about to fill his bowl with kibble but then suddenly thought, Nah!
You know what? How about we have packing peanuts for dinner instead?
In any case, the clinic’s order of operations was abundantly clear: You had to pay the ransom before the hostage was trotted out.
I woke up early Friday morning knowing it was going to be a busy day—keeping Sam The Dog appropriately “hydrated,” trying to squeeze in a little work, responding to at least some of the social media posts and DMs spurred on by the viral article, and putting the finishing touches on packing—so I’d calculated last night before bed that my only guaranteed beauty window before the nerve-racking “meet the family” dinner would be from 6:00 a.m. to 7:00 a.m.
In the shower, I let the torrent of hot water rain down on me.
The amazing water pressure in the guesthouse was due to Sam’s handiwork when we’d first moved in.
We’d both felt mildly guilty about his removal of the low-flow device in drought-ridden Southern California, but we got over it pretty fast by promising ourselves we’d take short showers.
Until that fell by the wayside, too. Now, as I savored the decadent water massage, I fervently hoped that the pressure at the new apartment would be decent—or I might have to find a way to sneak back here now and then.
When I eventually hopped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel, my phone was ringing. It was Max. My heart skipped a beat.
“Good morning, beautiful,” Max said as soon as I answered. I smiled at myself in the mirror. “What are you up to?”
“Good morning, yourself,” I said. “I just got out of the shower. What’s up?”
“I’m sorry,” he said before clearing his throat, “but all I got from that was that you’re naked right now.”
“Very funny.”
“So listen, I have some exciting, but also unfortunate, news.”
“Oh no, please don’t tell me you can’t make it to dinner tonight. I’ll never hear the end of it. I’ll show you a boob if you tell me you’re not canceling.”