Page 189 of Can't Always Get What You Want

My best friend shrugs. “I mean…”

“Have they offered you the job?” I lean forward to better hang on her every word.

“Not officially,” she says, voice dripping with fake humility. “But the human resources manager winked at me on my way out. So, like. If I’m not hired, I would be genuinely shocked.”

Poppy is the kind of friend who makes every boring day better and every good day hysterically unhinged. She’s terrifyingly competent when she chooses to be.

Like today, for example: she waltzed into an IT consulting firm in a pair of black high heels and walked out with a verbal almost-offer.

“If they offer you the job, you’d be crazy not to take it,” I say, sipping what’s left of my coffee. “The office istenminutes from my apartment. We could get brunch every weekend! We can watch Luca try to fix the garbage disposal again.”

“Oh, just what I want to do, watch your boyfriend fix appliances.” Poppy hums. “It’s tempting. But I also got an offer from that firm in Denver…”

She is doing this on purpose to torture me!

“No.” I shake my head, pointing at her like a furious mother goose. “Absolutely not. You are not moving to a different time zone. I will chain you to my building.”

She laughs. “What if I like skiing?”

“You don’t.” I laugh. “You hate cold weather, and you get altitude sickness at high elevations.”

“Fine—you have a point. That last part is true.” Poppy pauses. “Remember Breckenridge?”

Everyone remembers Breck.

“You threw up in a gondola.”

“And still got hit on!” she says proudly. “Never let it be said that I‘mnota team player.”

I giggle at the memory. “You were crying.”

“Anyway—point is—I’m ready to be in one place. For real. If I get this job, I’m planting roots.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Complete with a lease?” In my building, perhaps?

She shrugs, then bites her lip like she’s notnotthinking aboutall three. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve been nomadic for so long that I kind of want to try being domestic. Like you.”

Domestic = dating.

Awww. “You realize this means I get to give you unsolicited dating advice.” I sigh blissfully. “I’ve been waiting for this moment foryears.”

“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “If I so much as download a dating app, you’re going to build me a Pinterest board full of wedding ideas and interview every potential match like it’s your job.”

“Duh.” That’s what best friends are for. “First question I would ask: do you floss regularly? Second question: what’s your relationship with your mother? Third: how do you feel about me being around all the time?”

Only correct answers need apply.

“We’re entering our Wife Era.” She raises her plastic latte cup in a toast, eyes going dreamy. “If I meet someone hot, who’s emotionally stable and regularly changes the sheets on his bed, you’re going to be my maid of honor.”

“Obviously,” I say. “And I’m giving a speech at the wedding that includes the words ‘gondola vomit.’”

We laugh before slipping into a comfortable silence for a minute, sipping and nibbling and people-watching.

There’s a guy across the street walking a pink poodle while riding a skateboard, a young mother negotiating with a toddler who has clearly decided today is the perfect day to lay down in the middle of the sidewalk and throw a tantrum—and a pair of college girls debating over whether a guy named Kyle deserves a third chance.

“So. Enough about me.” Poppy twirls her straw like she’s about to stir up some shit. “How’s cohabitation?”

Ah. There it is.

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