“To us!” says Coco.
“I don’t know what I’d have done without any of you,” I say. “And I’m so sorry my parents just turned up here, by the way. I wonder how they found me.”
“Benny, your boss from the PR agency,” says Angie, reaching for a pack of cards in the middle of the table. “He had your address for the paychecks.”
“Of course,” I say. “Well, I had to deal with them sooner or later.…” I pause, thinking. I wish that had ended better. I wish I’d earned their respect rather than demanded it. But maybe relationships can’t be repaired in one day.
“So, head of new projects,” says Julia. “What’s your first order of business?”
“Drinking this. Then I’m going to smoke a cigarette.”
Julia and Madeleine make disapproving sounds and Angie shouts, “Woo!”
“And I’m going to call Jonah and let him know the news. Then I’m going to introduce Lina to Phil and Lara, so they can talk about A Meal Grows in Brooklyn, and figure out how to buy the idea from them so we can set it up properly to launch, because that’s an awesome idea and deserves another chance at success,” I say. “And then I’m going to build the best little food truck empire in New York goddamn City.”
“I’ll toast to that,” says Julia. “To building empires.”
“To building empires!” we all chorus, and clink glasses.
Angie throws a cork at me. “Hey, I am so proud of you. Have I mentioned that?”
“You know, not everything worked out the way I expected it to, and yet … it’s almost perfect. Bartolo’s, Jonah, Bianca, Cosmo, Vic, Lina, even jail … it all happened for a reason.”
“You took a hell of a lot of risks,” says Angie, shuffling the deck of cards thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s the secret to your success.”
“That’s what Marie told me to do,” I say. “Take risks.”
“To Marie,” says Julia.
We all hold up our wineglasses.
“To Marie.”
I take another sip of wine. “She also said that I’d survive with my friends and family … that’s you guys. You’re my friends and my family now. We can always rely on one another.” I pause. “I sound seriously stupid.”
“So now are you going to call Aidan, or what?” prompts Julia.
“Does anybody want any more wine?” I reply.
“Why are you changing the subject?” says Julia.
“Why don’t you answer the question?” echoes Maddy.
We pause. They’re all staring at me, arms folded. I get his business card out of my purse. Aidan Carr.
I stare at it for a moment and sigh.
“I know you’ve been thinking about him,” says Julia. “You get that moony lovey look on your face.”
“Moony?”
“It’s true,” says Angie. “You look kind of retarded.”
I throw a wine cork at her.
“Call him!” says Coco. “What have you got to lose?”
“My self-respect?”
“You lost that a long time ago,” says Angie.
“Be honest,” says Madeleine. “Do you want to call him?”
“Yes, I want to, but…”
“But nothing!” shouts Coco. She clears her throat sheepishly. “That came out louder than I thought it would. Sorry.”
“It would go wrong, he’d end up rejecting me.”
“Why would you even say that?” says Madeleine. “No guy in his right mind would reject you.”
“I can’t put myself, you know, out there. I can’t risk it.”
“Isn’t this exactly what you were just talking about?” says Julia. “Taking a risk?”
“What’s the worst that can happen?” adds Coco.
“A blown-off finger behind the sofa?”
“Please, don’t mention the finger,” says Julia, looking sick.
“Let’s put it to a vote,” says Coco. “Who votes Pia calls him?”
Madeleine and Julia raise their hands. “We do!”
“Yeah, grow a pair and call him,” says Angie.
“If you don’t call Aidan, I will cry,” threatens Julia.
“Then stock up on Kleenex, sweet-cheeks. Because it’s not going to happen.”
“How about this,” says Angie. “We’ll flip a coin.”
Julia pulls out a coin from her pocket, flips it, and catches it under her hand.
“Call it, Pia.”
I think for a moment. “Tails.”
Julia pulls her hand away and looks.
“Suck it. You’re calling him.”
CHAPTER 35
An hour later, I still haven’t called Aidan.
Instead, I’m stretching out on my bed, still fully dressed, and reflecting on everything that’s happened.
I did it.
I created a successful business from nothing, sold it, made a profit, got a job I know I’ll love, and saved my home and the home of the people I love.
And this is just the beginning. I feel like I could do anything. I know how to fight for what I believe in, I trust my instincts, and I know what’s really important to me.
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but … I love my life.
Then my phone rings. It’s an unlisted number.
“Pia speaking?”
“Pia, it’s your mother.”
I stiffen. What does she want?
She clears her throat. “I am just calling quickly while your father isn’t here to say … I am so proud of you.”
“Thank you,” I stammer out. She’s never said that.
“Don’t tell your father I rang. You know what he’s like.”
“I won’t.”
“I love you,” she says, and hangs up.
She hasn’t told me she loves me in years, not since I was a kid, homesick and crying on the phone to her from my first boarding school. And she’s never, ever told me she’s proud of me.
Wow, I miss my mom.
For a second I wish I could go back in time to being six years old, and could climb into her lap and ask her to read me a story, so she’d wrap her arms around me and make me feel safe.
I vow to call her next week, just to talk. If I want a good relationship with her in the future, I have to make the effort.
Then my phone rings again. It’s another unlisted number. Mom, again?
“Hello?”
“Pia, it’s me.” It’s my father. I get a funny thudding feeling in my chest. What does he want?
“Hi.”
“Your mother doesn’t know I’m calling, so I need to be quick.” He clears his throat. “Pia, I’m very impressed with everything you’ve achieved in the past two months. I have just been reading about Carus International and I looked up your food truck on the World Wide Web.… Well done.”
“Thank you,” I say after a pause. Is this really happening? And did he just say “World Wide Web?”
“You’ve really achieved something,” he says. His voice sounds warmer and more relaxed than I’ve heard it in years. “I just want to say that I hope you’re enjoying this bit. Building something, making it a success … I know how exciting and satisfying it is.”
“I will, I am, it is—” I stammer. I’m stunned.
“Enjoy every second of it, schatzi.”
“Yes, Daddy. I will … I am.”
He hasn’t called me schatzi since I was about ten. It means sweetheart. I get a lump in my throat.
“Well, good-bye. We’ll call you next Sunday.”
And then he hangs up.
I’m left staring at my phone, frozen with surprise.
Then, almost without thinking about it, I take out Aidan’s card again, and lie back on my pillow. I stare at the card for a few minutes.
Aidan Carr.
Should I call Aidan?
Reasons yes: Because I like him, I really do, like I haven’t liked anyone in years. Maybe ever.
Reasons no: Because I fucked up the date. Because I don’t feel as confident abo
ut love as I do about SkinnyWheels. Because it will go wrong. Because it always goes wrong. Because I probably like the idea of him more than the reality. Because I don’t even know if I’m capable of having a real relationship. Because I don’t want to get rejected again. Because it’s too hard. Because I’m scared of taking a risk.
With almost trembling hands—oh cliché of clichés!—I dial his number.
It starts ringing. I can feel my heart beating in my throat. God! How can something as simple as calling a guy be even more nerve-racking than presenting to a boardroom of high-powered executives?
“Hello?”
“Hi, hello, uh, Aidan? It’s, uh, it’s Pia,” I say, trying to make my voice deep and calm.
“Hmm … Pia … Pia?” I think I can hear a smile in his voice.
“The girl who pressed the eject button and ruined an otherwise great evening? About two weeks ago?”
“Oh, that Pia,” he says. “Well, how do you do?”
“I do very well, thank you,” I say. “Actually, I was just, uh, calling to apologize for being such a freak at dinner. I wasn’t quite myself. I ran into someone I used to know and it threw me.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry I shouted at you. I had no right to. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve been regretting it ever since.”
We both pause.
“I was wondering if we could redo the second half of that dinner?” I say, my voice catching in my throat.
“I’d rather not,” he says. My heart stops for a second. I’m immediately flooded with a burning embarrassment. I knew it. I knew I would be rejected again.
Then he clears his throat.
“I’d rather just see you again. No explanation needed, no second takes of the first take. Just … more.”
I jump up, off my bed, and punch the air a few times. Yes!
“Well, that is good news,” I say, trying to sound as cool as I can.
“What are you doing right now?”
“I … can’t think of a cute thing to say.” My brain is empty, and I can’t stop smiling.
“You live on Union Street, right? Just up from Smith? I’m taking my dog Ziggy for an evening stroll. I could call by in say … seven minutes.”
“I’ll be on the stoop waiting for you,” I say.
We hang up.
I immediately scream at the top of my lungs, knowing I’ll get everyone’s attention. Within seconds, they’re all in my doorway.
“What the hell is going on?”
“Aidan. I called him. Coming. Here. Seven minutes. Help.”
Thank God for girls: within moments, Coco is back with my toothbrush with some toothpaste on it, Angie is standing at my wardrobe throwing clothes and shoes around my room, and Madeleine is brushing my hair.
“I’m not good at the preening stuff.” Julia is sitting calmly on the bed, still holding her wine. “I’ll give you moral support.”
“Keep watch over the street! Look for a guy with a dog.”
“Guy with dog, check,” she says, bouncing over my bed to the window.
I apply bronzer and deodorant as I’m brushing my teeth, carefully rinse and spit into a glass of water also offered by Coco, and throw off my business meeting clothes and put on my favorite sexy-casual jeans and top, jacket, and big scarf.
“Where is my Kiehl’s Original Musk?”
“In my room!” gasps Coco. “You brought it up last weekend, remember?”
I sprint up the stairs to the attic, bound into Coco’s room, and glance around for the bottle. I find it sitting on her nightstand and pick it up, then glance into her trash can, and see an empty pregnancy test box. Huh? That makes no sense. Why would Coco need a pregnancy test? We got her the Plan B.… But if she had missed a period, she’d say something to us, right? She’s probably just paranoid.
Making a mental note to talk to her about it tomorrow, I bound back down the stairs two at a time to my room.
“Do I look okay?” I’m breathless.
“Perfect,” says Angie.
“Guy with dog! Guy with dog!” shouts Julia from the window. “This is not a drill! We are a go!”
I gasp, take a quick look at myself in the mirror as the girls dab my lips with gloss and fluff my hair completely unnecessarily, and then run out the door.
“I love you guys!” I shout as I run down the stairs.
“We love you, too!” shouts Madeleine.
I land with a thump in the front hallway and take a moment to compose myself and catch my breath.
Then I open the front door and casually step out, just as Aidan and his dog—a gorgeous Irish setter, carrying that huge rubber bone toy in his mouth—are walking past our stoop.
“Hey,” I say casually.
He glances up and smiles, his face lighting up. “Why, hello.”
The street is completely empty, no passersby, no cars, but every window is lit, giving it a cozy, calm, homey feel.
Smiling down at him, I’m suddenly filled with a warm feeling of … I don’t know quite how to describe it. Certainty. I feel like I recognize him, like when you see a person you knew when you were very young and then see them again years later, and their face is just how you remember it.
I walk down the stoop slowly, smiling wider and wider with every step.
Aidan is smiling, too, and we don’t break eye contact, not once.
And by the time I get to the bottom, I know what I’m going to do.
I stand directly in front of him, lift my face up to his. He’s still smiling, too, and leans toward me … and then we kiss.
“Wooo!” I hear cheers from the house. I look up to see Julia, Coco, Madeleine, and Angie all cheering from my open bedroom window. “Yeah! Woo!”
I look back at Aidan and grin. “My roommates.”
“I figured.” He smiles back. “And this is Ziggy.”
I look down at Ziggy, who is patiently sitting and smiling up at us in that happy doggy way. I offer my hand for him to smell, and he immediately starts licking it affectionately.
“He likes you,” says Aidan.
“I like you,” I say, without thinking about it.
“I like you, too,” he says. “Can I interest you in a walk around Brooklyn this evening?”
“I’d love that.”
We start walking up Union Street, automatically falling into step together. My hands are in my pockets, but within a couple of steps, he nudges my arm out and places his hand against mine.
Here’s the strangest thing, and I cringe to admit it: holding Aidan’s hand feels … perfect.
I’ve found home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Firstly, thank you for reading this book. I hope you enjoyed it.
Thank you to Jill Grinberg, for loving this idea and making it happen. You are my fairy godmother. Thank you to Laura Longrigg, for believing in me from the start. You are my fairy godmother, too. (I really hit the jackpot on the fairy godmother front.)
Huge, huge, huge thank you to Dan Weiss, for taking a chance on me when I said, “I want to write a series about twentysomethings that’s like a cross between The Group, The Best of Everything, and The Baby-sitters Club, um, details to come,” and for his constant encouragement and inspiration.
Thank you to Vicki Lame, editor extraordinaire, for her brilliance, humor, enthusiasm, and friendship, and for making the book sharper, smarter, and better in every way, and to Sarah Jae-Jones, for her help and support.
Thank you to Lucy Stille, for loving this manuscript, which made me fall in love with it again.
Thank you to Katelyn Detweiler, Kat Maher, and Fiona Barrows, for being emotionally insightful, honest, brilliant readers. (And the future leaders of the publishing industry in New York and London, if anyone is wondering.)
Thank you to Kirsty Richardson, for being the only thing between me and chaos after Errol was born; to Riikka Pirjala, for her amazing support and friendship when we moved to New York; and to Steve Clark, the
best visa lawyer in the world, ever.
Thanks also to Jim and Tim, the bee guys; to the food truck people who patiently (and not so patiently) answered my questions and requested to remain anonymous (they’re so mysterious!); and to Val, for helping me figure out how to get Pia arrested.
Thanks to Sasha Wagstaff for her friendship, counsel, and cheerleading. You are my kindred e-spirit.
Thanks to my wise, loving, funny parents for truly believing that I am, in fact, the next Jane Austen.
Thanks to all the readers who e-mail me and tell me that they’re just like me. I hope so, because you guys rock.
Thanks to my friends who inspire me, particularly the ones who helped me survive the treacherous age of twenty-two: Bec, Sarah, Alex, Amy, Caroline, Vicky, Ali, Penny, Sass, Kate, Catherine, Devi, Bennery, Lorraine, Laura, Lydia, Victoria, Susan, Daisy, Mariana, Tanya, Andrea, and my sister Anika. You are all my homegirls. And to Conor, Matt, Mike, Max, Chris, Hawk, and Tim. You’re my homegirls, too.
And most of all thanks to Fox, my love, and Errol, our baby. In the words of Bryan Adams: Everything I do, I do it for you.
READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEEK OF
LOVE AND CHAOS
A BROOKLYN GIRLS NOVEL
AVAILABLE WINTER 2014
CHAPTER 1
I was really going to be somebody by the time I was twenty-three.
Have a career. Be good at something. Be happy.
But here I am, less than two months before my twenty-third birthday, in a tiny café with my mother, Annabel, “catching up” over waffles and fruit juice, because I am unemployed and have nothing better to do on a random Tuesday morning.
The waffles are organic, by the way, and the juice is organic lingonberry, a ridiculous Scandinavian fruit famed for its antioxidants. This is Brooklyn, where the greater the obscurity, the higher the cred. Personally, I haven’t got a problem with SunnyD or good old full-fat Coca-Cola, but whatever fries your burger, right?
And of course, the waiter—who Annabel has already quasi-yelled at twice—rushes up with the jug for a refill, trips, and boom. Lingonberry juice all over me. So now I’m soaked. The punch line to an already (not so) delightful morning.
He’s mortified. “Oh my! I am so sorry, let me clean that up—”
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