Page 8 of The Challenger

June zooms in on one of the photos and whistles under her breath. “Are you kidding me? He’s famous.”

At the whiff of celebrity, Vandana leans forward, practically foaming at the mouth. “Who is it? Gimme, gimme, gimme.”

June hands off the phone with a whistle. “Now I know what zero body fat looks like.”

Vandana thumbs through the images with a frown. “Since when do you date tennis players?”

“We’re not dating,” I say, mildly annoyed. “I met him like, an hour ago. Not even.”

“How old is he?” June asks.

“Twenty-five.”

“Christ, love,” she moans. “He’ll be able to fuck you to the moon.”

“That’s a seven-year age difference,” Vandana says, handing back my phone.

I gaze at her coolly. “Meaning?”

“I’m not judging,” she says, when she totally is. “But considering you’ve struggled with any relationship longer than a week, a young guy traveling the world most of the year doesn’t strike me as the best choice for … hanging out.”

“Whatever,” I grumble, for once not wanting her to be right. “He’s not my type, anyway.”

June lays a hand on mine in solidarity. She’s faced her share of Vandana’s relationship opinions, whether she’s wanted them or not. “For one night, a strapping, athletic sex god can be anyone’s type. Who cares if he’stwenty? From what I recall, he’s a beast on the court, and I’ve always said a caveman would be good for you. You’re so in your head all the time. Thinking. Analyzing. Writing. Half the timewedon’t know what’s going on with you. Why not give him a go? He’s clearly interested and look what happened over here.”

She gestures at Vandana, who prefers not to be corrected or reminded that she didn’t follow her own rules and is now better off for it.

“Babes,” Vandana says, and here it comes—another lecture or well-meaning story to prove I’m chronically inept with men. “Don’t flip out on me. Just listen. My friend Lorraine, the sports agent with a big nose? We had lunch last month. Her colleague used to represent him and was dumped with no warning earlier this year. Said he’s a handful and not in great space. ‘Bit of a disaster’ were her exact words. Men on a downslide can be ugly.”

As if Vandana knows what it’s like to date a man on a downslide. Perfectionism was practically written into her SoCal, platinum-spoon-in-mouth contract. She’s gone from debutante, to wife of one of Hollywood’s most in-demand assistant directors, to the budding girlfriend of a Monaco kazillionaire who could buy Spain and still be flush.Downisn’t in her vocabulary. And right now, I don’t need another one of her knocks. I want to bask in the glow of a famous hottie tracking me down and paying good money for the opportunity.

It’s not like anything will happen.

“There’s no hope in hell I’m calling him,” I say, bringing the topic to a close. “But how else was I supposed to get him off the phone?” I wave Conrad over, and he flips me the finger in response. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m calling it mimosa o’clock.”

ChapterFour

I’m back homein the late afternoon after surviving the dreaded Costco snarl. As I unload supplies in the driveway, my neighbor Sally cracks open her front door and waves at me like the queen used to do from her carriage. Meaning,I acknowledge you but don’t want to engage.She’s a half-blind retiree who refers to me as nouveau riche and leaves handwritten notes in my mailbox if Lizzo is blaring too loud or the smell of my grilled salmon drifts through her window. If anything, I’m an enigma to her—a writer who can afford a Tudor-style home in a classy neighborhood and travel the world, all without a husband.

The person I have to thank for all of my bounties is my agent, the notorious Nathaniel Lenard. He hustled to get my debut memoir,Pieces of a Pisces, into the hands of Oprah, who touted it as a tour de force. With her anointment, sales went through the roof. My story of loss and rebirth graced the New York Times bestseller list for fourteen months and launched me as a writer. Soon my email inbox was overflowing with readers desperate for advice on how to turn their own lives around, and Nathaniel smelled the opportunity like a bloodhound.

Instead of writing the mystery novel I had stuck in my head, he insisted I capitalize on my newfound fame.The Ten Truths of Flynn Drydenwas my follow-up, an inspirational guide on how to make your dreams come true. My world has never been the same since. Nathaniel spun my success and girl-next-door appeal into Flynn Dryden, motivational guru for the next generation.

The market needed a fresh face, and I was it.

But all the attention created a whole new cycle of anxiety. I’d written my memoir to get that monkey off my back, so the irony of it is laughable, should one find humor in this kind of thing. Four books later, the pressure is on for number five, and I’m not feeling it. I’ve already ignored several calls from Nathaniel, but as I toe off my heels in the foyer and haul grocery bags into the kitchen, the ringtone I’ve assigned him, a shrieking alarm—you do the math—goes off. My agent always calls, never texts, and if he had his way, I’d be locked in a tower writing eighteen hours a day. Such is the case when you make someone a shit ton of money.

After having five hundred sweaty shoppers crowd me already today, all I want is to zone out with a beer, but I have to deal with the devil sooner than later.

“Hi,” I say.

“Are you sitting down?”

“I just walked in the door. What’s up?” I ask, pretending I don’t hear in his voice how he’s about to explode with glee.

“First of all, who loves you the most?”

“You have a wife and three sons who adore you, not to mention half of New York’s literati. Isn’t that enough?” Not in the mood to prop him up, I grab a cold Stella Artois from the fridge and wander into the great room.

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