“Got it,” Vi says. “You’re a strong woman. But that doesn’t mean I can’t loan you some—”
“I’m not taking your money.” Even if she can afford it. Vi got her law degree at NYU and is now a very successful IP attorney living in Manhattan. She’s also gorgeous—blonde, creamy skin, and tall. Sort of the opposite of my olive skin, dark hair and eyes, and average height. She’s preppy. I’m earthy. She’s a thinker. I’m a feeler. Or I used to be. Before Greg. Now, I’m not sure who I am anymore, which is why friends like Vi are so important. “Hey, please don’t think for a second that I’m not incredibly grateful for you and everything you do. My life would be a cesspool of ick if it weren’t for you.”
“I’d like to think I contribute more than just a level up from ‘ick.’ How about my presence turns your bland roadside diner of a life into a culinary oasis with one Michelin star.”
“Wait.” I trap a breath. Vi and her boyfriend, Jay, decided to make an offer on a diner across the sludge pond in Hoboken, New Jersey. He’s a world-class chef, but neither of them can afford to open a restaurant in Manhattan. Not without wiping out their entire savings and sinking themselves into serious debt. Their plan is to find a place near the city to establish his cooking reputation. “So you guys got it? You got the diner?”
“Yes!” Vi squeals. “I can’t believe it, Ginnie! There were five other investors chomping at the bit to buy this place just for the land, but the owner didn’t want the restaurant leveled. He gave it to us for… Ready? Ten percent below asking! I mean,” she exhales, “it’s a dream come true, Ginnie-bean. Jay didn’t believe me, but I told him to wish, pray, beg God for this. And we got it.”
Jay is Italian and a hardcore Catholic. Except when it comes to premarital shacking, apparently. Other than that, he’s all about his mamma, big family, big food, and hard work. They both believe in wishy-washy bullcrap like praying, which I call wishing. To whom? An empty void that couldn’t give a damn.
Wishing is for idiots. You want something, you bust your ass for it. It’s that simple. Not that I have anything against people like Jay or Olivia, but I just don’t see the point in asking imaginary forces to make my life better.
Yes, yes, I cross my fingers and “pray” metaphorically from time to time. But a real-life request to the powers that be? No.
“Congratulations on the diner, Olivia. I really mean it. And I can’t wait to eat there!”
“Thank you, Ginnie. But pretty please promise if your situation comes down to losing your house and moving back to Colorado, you’ll at least think about a loan? One you can pay back in this lifetime or the next? We’ve been separated for almost eight years, and I finally have you within driving distance.”
Damn you, Olivi-bug. She knows how much I missed her. We were inseparable until Olivia and I went to different universities—me in Colorado, her on the east coast. We only saw each other during the holidays when Vi went back to Aurora to see her mom. Vi’s brother, Nolan, or “Moose” as we all call him because of his thick brown hair and hulking muscles, actually moved out here almost six years ago not so far from me in Poughkeepsie. He’s in construction.
“Please, Ginnie-Bean?” she begs.
I roll my eyes. “Fine, Olivi-bug. I’ll tell you if it comes down to pushing the self-destruct button. But I won’t guarantee I’ll take your money.”
“Grrr, you, grrrr. But as an attorney, I’ve learned to recognize an olive branch of goodwill and accept accordingly.”
“Awesome muffins,” I spout unenthusiastically.
“Huh?”
“The world has moved beyond awesome sauce, Olivia,” I explain. “You have to get creative.”
“So if I want to tell you I’m excited, I should say something like awesome Bundt cake. Or awesome fuck crepes.”
“Please don’t ever say fuck crepes again. I don’t have enough money to pay for therapy right now.”
“How about fuck tamale? Yanno, like, when you and a guy get all tangled up in a blanket when you’re rolling around on the bed and suddenly you don’t know where his meat filling ends and your corn hole begi—”
“Ohmygod. Please stop. You’ve literally just ruined two of my favorite foods.”
“I promise to never say fuck crepes or fuck tamale again, as long as you keep your end of the deal.”
Ugh. I don’t know which I hate more, her references to porn food or having to disclose I’m in financial ruin to the people I admire. Yeah, sure, I love her like a sister, too, but that doesn’t mean I’m okay with dragging her into my money drama. Part of being a grown-up is owning my mistakes, and Greg was one of them.