Page 1 of Pretty Little Thing

One

Nora

“Watch where you’re going, asshole!”

The truck zooms by, swerving around my sedan to make it through the intersection before the light changes. It doesn’t, obviously, and he nearly slams into another car as he flies through the very red light. No cops to catch it. Typical.

I grit my teeth, still fuming long after it nearly crushed my damn bumper.

Sunday morning Chicago traffic is the fucking worst. I’d rather walk but it’s starting to get cold. If there’s anything I hate more than asshole drivers, it’s being cold. I’m five-foot-nothing in heels. I get cold fast.

Then again, maybe a little more physical activity will help with my stress.

Screw that.

I hit the gas, rushing toward the one thing in my life I know won’t stress me out.

I reach the cafe shortly after noon, technically late, but my friends don’t give a shit about that. We don’t get together for brunch once a week to nag at each other. We do it to forget our problems and support one another. No matter what.

I ride into the parking lot and slam the brakes in front of the valet booth. A man rushes out the open my door and I pass my keys off to him with a quick nod.

“Good morning, Ms. Payne,” he says.

“Good morning,” I say, trying to be polite as I shuffle my shivering ass toward the entrance.

As soon as I step into the cafe, the hostess greets me with a smile. She doesn’t say a word to me but she doesn’t have to. She gestures behind her at the table in the back. Ourtable.

I slide my jacket off, shaking the stress from my shoulders along with it. I make it halfway across the restaurant before I hear Trix’s voice. She’s not speaking English, meaning she’s talking to her grandmother. I can only make out a few of the Italian words falling from her lips — mainly just the slurs or dirty words.

I arrive at our table-for-three and Trix looks up at me. Her big, painted eyes roll back and she raises an apologetic, red-tinted fingernail as I settle into the chair to her right.

As soon as I sit down, a server lays a menu down in front of me, along with a nice, tall mimosa. I offer him a wink. He winks back and quickly cowers away from the table as Trix’s Italian tirade ups the volume a little.

“Ma. Ma. Ma!” Trix exhales. “I gotta go. Nora’s here.”

Oh, thank god. Trix always whips out English when she wants to signal to her grandmother to wrap it up.

“Yes, she still has that blonde hair you like,” she says into the phone, looking at me. “No, she’s not married. No, I won’t tell her—” She heaves and lowers the phone an inch. “She wants you to get married.”

“Tell her I’ll try,” I say with a laugh.

“She says she’ll try, Ma.” Trix pauses to listen. “I’m not telling her that. ... Because it’d set feminism back fifty years.”

I chuckle and reach for my glass. The fresh orange juice tickles my nose as I take a long sip and the champagne bubbles twitch all the way down. I wait all week for this. Judging by the two empty glasses sitting in front of Trix already, she needed it, too.

“Okay, Ma, bye. Bye. I said bye. Addio.Ti amo.”

She ends the call and drops her phone onto the tablecloth with a dull clink. “Aughhh,” she groans, letting all her breath out.

“So, how’s Ma?” I ask her.

“Charming, as usual. Is it warm in here?”

“Not really.”

She flares her jacket to brush air into her face. “Feels like Satan himself just gave me a facial.”

I laugh. “Everything okay?”

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