Your exclusive sneak peek at Ask Me
This is the moment. The one I’ll reflect on as my big aha. The day the clouds parted, sunlight streamed bright, and my path forward flowed clear and certain.
“Wipe the duck poop off your face.” My assistant, Maxine, offers a towel, and the kindness of feigning she didn’t just see me flop face first into the lake. “And, um—your dress is tucked in your underwear.”
Spitting a mouthful of mud, I take the towel with gratitude. “You’re an angel.”
She looks at her watch. “Don’t kill me, but we’ve got twenty minutes until your interview with Vanity Fair .”
“Thank you.” I mop my face and stealthily yank some gauzy purple tulle from my ass. “May I please have one minute alone to collect myself?”
Max nods, though she looks unsure. “I’ve got a brand-new iPhone on its way to the house now.” She’s backing toward her rental car like I’m a fugitive who might escape. “By the time you get showered, I should have it synced with your old one.”
“I appreciate that.”
She holds out her hand and I fish in the pocket of my gown for the waterlogged phone. At least I got pockets. That’s all I asked for when my publisher hatched this plan for publicity shots of me, looking pensive and wise in a lavender dress, cloaked in fog at the helm of a red rowboat.
Never mind that no wise woman rows in the rain wearing Givenchy. I wanted those pockets. Something to blend beauty with whimsy and practicality. Something approachable . Much like the advice I dish out in books and podcasts and my globally syndicated column.
I’m regretting those pockets since my car keys now rest at the bottom of Cherry Blossom Lake. At least I held on to my phone. As I drag it from folds of wet tulle, dripping and wrapped in water weed, that’s not much comfort.
Max accepts it stoically. “I’ll wait in the car.”
“Thank you.” I draw a breath and turn to face the lake.
It’s lovely here. Ducks thread their feathered bodies through the fingers of a willow as sunbeams sweep away morning mist. A gentle breeze lifts the ocean’s roar over the highway and across to the lake, carrying damp strands of moss and pine that cloak the shore in a fragrant lace.
Grace loved the smell of rain in the forest.
My heart twists as I turn my back on the lake. With as much dignity as I can muster, I pick kelp from my hair and make my way to Maxine’s car.
She’s already got the engine running. “I’ve called a tow truck to handle your car, and I sent you some talking points for the Vanity Fair interview.
” Max steers us away from the lakeshore back to Driftwood Drive, eyes on the road.
“And I know you think the shoot was a disaster, but the art director sounded thrilled.”
“They called?” That was quick.
Maxine turns left on Oceanlake Terrace. “Preston Publishing already got the raw shots. They’re ecstatic we captured that ethereal, melancholy mood they wanted.”
“Great.” That sounded sarcastic, so I try again. “I’m happy if they’re happy.”
Max glances over. “You’re happy?”
I consider that. “Working on it.”
Because let’s be honest: It’s hard to be cheerful with my publisher pushing for a book about grieving my dead sister.
“Here we are.” Max pulls through the horseshoe drive at the front of the lakefront mansion.
The driveway’s lined with crushed seashells, bleached by the sun or maybe some chemical that keeps it all sparkling white.
The house hunkers over us like a prehistoric beast. With six suites and stunning views from each room, it’s much too big for one person.
Thank God Max plans to stay, at least for the first month.
I stare at the house, not ready to go in.
This isn’t home, not even close. The mansion was built by some aging pop star who sold it a month later.
Rumor has it he went straight to rehab and hasn’t emerged.
The place boasts a stellar security system and a state-of-the-art recording studio where I’ll do my podcast for the next few months.
When my publisher found it, that felt like a sign.
But as lake water leaks from my ears, I’m rereading the sign. Caution , it might’ve read. Do not Enter .
Maybe Slippery When Wet .
“There’s a smile.” Max sounds relieved as she sets the brake. “Go in and get cleaned up. I’ll have the reporter wait in the study.”
Tears fill my eyes unexpectedly. I’m so very lucky. I am . “Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?”
“Yes.” She squeezes my hand. “But it’s nice to hear.”
As she hops out to catch the courier bringing my new phone, I drip up the driveway and into the house for a shower. Ten minutes of suds and steam leave me feeling half human instead of like a swamp creature.
Progress.
I blow-dry my hair, slick on some tinted lip balm, and touch my lashes with mascara.
My agent assured me there’s no photographer at this interview, but I still pick my outfit with care.
A flowy linen top in pale cream with faded jeans.
No shoes, mostly because I’m not sure which box I packed them in.
I can already guess how the article will describe me. “Comfortably barefoot and fresh-faced, Brooke Braham looks every bit her part as America’s most trusted friend.”
As I pad down the hall to the study, I pause to fix a vase of lilies from Preston Publishing. “Best wishes!” the card proclaims in neat, scripted font.
Translation: Finish the book, you overhyped flake.
Drawing a breath, I slip through the study to find Max looking grim. “I’m so sorry.” She hands me a brand-new iPhone. “ Vanity Fair had to postpone.” She sets a mug of tea on the desk. “They canceled this morning, and I didn’t see the email and I’m so, soooo sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” I honestly feel like an asshole for having an assistant in the first place. “I should be checking my own email.”
“But—”
“Max, it’s a relief.” I manage a shaky smile. “Truly.”
“If you say so.” She points at the phone in my hand. “I got your data ported, but your contacts are still loading. The cell service says it might be a couple hours.”
“Thank you.” I look out the window and ponder a walk on the beach. I should be writing, but I’m hardly in the right headspace after my unplanned dip in the lake.
I turn back to Max. “Take the afternoon off,” I say. “Go get yourself one of those muffins you love from Weirdoughs.”
Her eyes light up. “Yeah?”
“You haven’t stopped talking about them since we rolled into town.” A muffin’s the least I can do for her. “Get whatever you want. Lunch or a whole chocolate cake. Charge it to Preston Publishing’s account.”
She searches my face. “Do you want anything?”
I don’t, but she’ll fret if I don’t eat. “A sandwich would be nice.”
“Great.” She grabs her keys and hurries for the door. “There’s a new pile of fan mail on the table.”
“Thank you.” I listen for footsteps and the crunch of her tires on the driveway. Then I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Alone with my thoughts, I flop in the overstuffed chair by the window. I dragged it here last night, to the only spot facing the ocean. I sat here until two in the morning, watching the twinkle of lights on distant fishing boats.
God, this feels weird.
My new phone dings and I glance at the screen.
UNKNOWN: I’m here for you.
Tears fill my eyes. What would I do without Maxine? Even minus a contact name, I’d know her compassion anywhere.
ME: Thank you.
I hesitate, knowing I owe her much more.
ME: That means a lot to me, especially now.
Feeling the love, I read back through her message. That’s when I catch it. A tiny emoji that looks like a tool. Pliers?
Oooh.
This isn’t Max. It’s Camille Plier, my best friend from grad school. My oldest and dearest pal who pledged to check in on me this morning.
I reread my reply and decide it still fits. Just to be thorough, I type out another response.
ME: I’ve had a rough morning, so your text came at exactly the right time.
The bubbles appear, indicating Camille’s reply.
UNKNOWN: Glad to help. Sorry your morning sucks.
I laugh because that’s so Camille. She cuts right to the point, no glossy words or flowy shrink-speak. It’s what I love best about her. Our friendship’s seen me through some rough stuff.
Thinking of that gets me thinking of other tough times. Some happy ones, too. There’s been plenty of joy in my life. Even some silliness.
ME: Remember that party in El Cerrito? When I drank too much sangria and took off my top?
Of course she remembers. Camille’s the one who dared me to get up on that table and strip to “One Hot Mess,” by Malea. God, I was young. So young and reckless and completely clueless where my life might be headed.
Wistfulness twists in my chest as I type out more of the memory.
ME: I will never forgive you for gifting me those pink nipple tassels. I still can’t believe I did that.
Or that Camille took pictures. Like a very good friend, she deleted them that night. I watched her do it, never fearing they might reappear in some tabloid rag. She’s loyal like that.
Camille’s not responding, but I’m on a roll now.
ME: Call when you get a sec. I feel like I’m cycling through the next stage of grief, which you’ll say is a sign I should get laid.
She’s not wrong. My sexual appetite was always strong. But ever since Grace died, I haven’t had the heart for casual sex. It’s too soon, I know that, but a girl can dream.
Or feign spunk for a worried friend, which is what I do now.
ME: Lots of hot men in this town. I should find a fling. Some hot Oregon lumberjack with tattoos and a really huge?—
I pause to go hunting for the eggplant emoji. That’s the symbol for penis, right? My emoji game isn’t strong like hers, but I’m smiling as I hit send.
God, I miss my friend. My sister, too. I know I came here hoping for a fresh start. For a chance to clear my head and write this book near the place where Gracie took her last breath.
But until Camille texted, I didn’t know how homesick I’d be.
She’s not responding, which means she’s on a call.
Camille does telemedicine and typically books her appointments in the morning.
Just to be cute, I send a longer string of eggplants, then a peach emoji and that sequence I’ve seen with a finger poking at the circle of a hand looped in an OK sign.
The universal symbol for finger bang? I think that’s it.
It’s childish, I know, but it’s making me laugh, and how long has it been since I’ve done that?
My phone pings in my hand. Another text?
No, Camille’s calling. Max set a ringtone I don’t recognize. Lifting the phone to my ear, I answer with a smirk.
“This is Brooke Braham speaking, but you can call me Sparkle Tits.” That’s what she dubbed me the night of that party. “How may I help you?”
There’s a long, pregnant pause. Then a gruff rumble.
“Lady, I’m gonna stop you right there.” A man clears his throat and I nearly drop the phone. “Not sure who you think you’re texting, but this is your tow truck driver.”
The blood drains from my head. My hand starts to shake, and I really do drop the phone. Snatching it up, I scroll to that very first text.
UNKNOWN: I’m here for you.
Oh.
My.
God.
I squeeze my eyes shut and lift the phone to my ear. “I am so unbelievably sorry.” My voice sounds shaky and weird. “Truly, I have no words. I want you to know I would never intentionally address a stranger like that and I?—”
“Ma’am, it’s fine.”
Ugh. Ma’am? He’s probably eighty years old. I’ve sexually harassed someone’s grandpa.
“I just—” Should I try to explain? “It’s a new phone, and I saw the pliers and thought?—”
“Pliers?”
“The emoji in your first text.”
Another pause. “That’s a wrench.”
“A wrench?” I shouldn’t ask. “What’s the difference?”
The man has the patience of a saint. “A wrench is used for turning objects like lug nuts in a circular pattern,” he informs me. “Pliers are hand tools for gripping and twisting objects. Pinchers, if you will.”
I’m so embarrassed. More than I was ten seconds ago, and that’s saying something. “May I apologize again, please?”
“No need.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “We can pretend it didn’t happen.”
Like that’s possible. “I can’t believe I texted all that.” Except I kind of can. Given the morning I’ve had—the year I’ve had—I’m not quite myself. “Please forgive me, um—” Did he tell me his name?
“Kaleb,” he says, and he’s definitely chuckling now. “It’s not a problem.”
If he speaks to the press, it might be. But that’s the least of my concerns.
“Kaleb,” I say, still kicking myself. “Can you give me five minutes to find some shoes and a sweater?” I hesitate, then roll the dice on that chuckle.
On him having a sense of humor. “While I’m at it,” I add, “I’ll search for my dignity, too. ”
This time he laughs. A throaty sound, a rumble I feel from my toes to the tips of my fingers. Maybe some other parts, too.
Kaleb isn’t eighty. Mid-thirties, I’m guessing. Credit a million podcast call-ins for my ability to read voices, even if I missed the mark at first.
“Don’t search too hard.” He’s still laughing softly, a tone that sounds sexy and rough. “But keep me posted if you find those nipple tassels.”
He clicks off as my face bursts into flames.