“Oh.” I wish I could say this was the first time that something like this has happened to me. You’d think that a woman who writes romance books for a living would be a tiny bit more perceptive when it comes to flirting. “Sorry I called you a serial killer.”
We stare at each other in awkward silence. There’s a small line of people behind me that had no idea they’d be getting dinner and a show when they stepped in line for pizza.
“Do you want Parmesan packets?”
“Obviously.”
Ozzie and I take our slices to a table at the back of the food court. It’s the farthest I can get away from Karl and people without breaking any laws of science.
I pull out my phone and open the Smut Coven group chat.
Penny: I scared a cashier who was trying to flirt with me.
Jackie: Again?
Chelsey: Did you make this one cry?
Penny: No. I called him a serial killer though.
The Smut Coven consists of me and my two closest friends, Chelsey Hicks and Jackie Von. Like me, Jackie and Chelsey are romance writers. We met at a local writers’ group, not long after I moved to San Francisco, and started critiquing each other’s work. When Jackie and Chelsey’s lease was up, they moved in with me, and the Smut Coven was born. We’ve been roomies for the past nine years, and as of a month ago, we’re now business partners. Or at least we will be if we can come up with the cash to officially open our romance bookstore.
Chelsey: That wasn’t very Pisces of you.
Jackie: Cut yourself some slack. It’s your first time home in forever.
Jackie: And you’re there on business. Not pleasure.
That’s the truth. I’ve always been envious of people who go home for the holidays or even just on a whim without having to book extra sessions with their therapists to prep first. It’s not that my parents are bad people. They recycle, send handwritten thank-you notes, and I’m willing to bet they’re lifelong donors to the ASPCA because of that Sarah McLachlan commercial. They’re good people. They’re just so radically different from me that whenever we spend time together, we always end up turning into the worst versions of ourselves.
And I know it’s me. I’m the problem.
My twin sister, Phoebe, posts pictures on social media all the time of her with our parents at brunch at the Del Coronado or at home having a barbecue, and they all look so happy. I know social media is the highlight reel of our lives, but the reason Phoebe posts so many pictures with our parents is because she’s with them all the time. By choice. Even now I’m not coming home by choice. It’s a necessity.
Penny: Business. Not pleasure. I can do this.
Chelsey: Mercury is in retrograde.
Jackie: Ugh. Of course it is.
Penny: Mercury is so rude.
Chelsey: You’ve got this.
Jackie: There’s a new moon in two nights.
Chelsey: That’s a good sign!
Penny: Maybe. I’ll keep you guys posted.
I scarf down a few bites of pizza as I look at the rideshare app on my phone. As expected, the holiday means fewer drivers—the number of which allow pets is already minimal—and more passengers. I plug in my parents’ address on Coronado Island and watch as a little car widget dances across my phone screen promising that it’s looking for a match that will offer a speedy and friendly drive. I pour a little of my bottled water into Ozzie’s travel bowl and polish off the crust of my pizza. No Rides Found flashes across my phone screen.
“Please consider editing your preferences to increase your chances of finding a friendly Dryver near you,” I mumble to myself as I scroll through the list of preferences. “Smoking is out of the question. Right, Ozzie?”
Ozzie actually likes the way gross stuff smells, as is evidenced by the way he greets new friends at the dog park. My mother, on the other hand, has a nose that could rival a dog trained to sniff out drugs and illegally transported fruit at border checkpoints. If I show up smelling like cigarettes, she won’t let me in the house without first squirting me down with a hose. I decide that smoking is nonnegotiable, which leaves only one other possible option to yield different search results. The more the merrier!
Shit.
People. Strangers to be exact. Strangers like to make small talk, and if Karl has taught me anything, it’s that casual conversation isn’t my strong suit. Suddenly, secondhand smoke doesn’t sound so bad. Unfortunately, my mom would probably burn my clothes, leaving me with only my old prom dresses hanging in my closet to wear. I can’t spend the next three days dressed in floor-length ball gowns in hideous shades of aqua and pink.