Page 1 of Rewrite the Rules

one

Adler

september

“Are you here for the sexy pink book party?” One hostess, dressed head to toe in black, elbow-nudges the other beside her. “Crap. Sorry,secretbook party.”

I bob my head, a little frightened. What could possibly be going on back there in the private event room to earn the title ‘sexy pink book party’? Cue the pool of drool that collects in my mouth every time I enter my favorite farm-style brunch locale.Mmmmm. That signature scent—freshly pressed corn tortillas and smoky roasted hatch green chiles. I force myself to swallow before I start dribbling. If it were any other day, I’d stop at the hostess stand, request my favorite booth for one, order my usual, and get lost in the pages of a Tessa Rayne best seller.

But today my best friends have planned something a little more eventful than a Colorado-style breakfast burrito smothered in delicious thick pork green chile. My stomach grumbles loudly. I post a mental sticky note to the inside wall of my mind. ‘Eat something before work today, Adler.’

The hostess who did not spill the beans leads me past the ‘Wait Here to be Seated’ sign and we make a beeline to the private event room in the back of the restaurant. “How pink are we talking?”

Her auburn ponytail whips her head around, eyes wide. “They’ve been setting up in there for about two hours…so pretty pink.” She pauses at the party room entrance. “Enjoy and congratulations for”—she twists her wrists in the air—“whatever the heck this is.” She winks and then smiles warmly before turning on her heel. I like her sass. We could probably be friends, but right now I don’t have the energy and my roster is full.

I am barely through the double doors of the party room when several loudpop, pop, popssend my heart rate well past the ideal target range straight into the danger zone. The same zone my heart instantly leaps to when I even consider running—which is seldom.

Pink and gold confetti rain over me as I stare—thoroughly unamused—at three sets of eager puppy-dog eyes.

My best friends lured me here under the guise of a simple get-together with a quick champagne toast. Instead, I’m greeted with a full-blown posh extravaganza to celebrate my recent and very off-the-record achievement.

I touch my scalp with four fingers and gently shake at my roots, attempting to loosen the glittery explosion from my hair. “Was that really necessary?” I ask in a pique of annoyance. I nod toward the empty confetti launchers that my friends still hold in their hands—evidence of their grandiose theatrics.

“Sorry, Addie!” Noa grimaces. She shoots an accusing glare to Reese right beside her. “Told you she’d hate the poppers.”

Reese smiles unapologetically. “I never disagreed.”

My favorite people in the whole world are gathered in this meager private party room. Noa, the lovely Polynesian sweetheart, who is as good a mother as Teresa, always makes me feel safe.

Reese, the blonde bombshell spitfire of our group, looks better suited to walk the Victoria Secret fashion show runway than to work in a stale legal office. Whenever I’m taking life way too seriously, she reminds me to breathe.

Quinn is a have-no-mercy, take-zero-prisoners, boss lady. She looks like the love child of Denzel Washington and that elven princess fromThe Lord of the Rings. She protects me. She holds us all together and made sure our sisterhood endured well past college.

We’re only missing one of us today. Mani, who I’m sure will join us shortly via FaceTime, is the striking crimson-haired, emerald-eyed kook of our little family. She’s a highly intelligent, successful influencer with millions of followers, who still sees a psychic for mental health guidance. To this very day she refuses to wear gray tones when Mercury is in retrograde.

“Cheer up, grump. This is aparty.” Reese is either unaware or unbothered by my lackluster reaction to the surprise welcoming. I step through the threshold and slap on an unconvincing smile.

The room is decorated in a variety of pinks like a well-funded bachelorette party. Thick satin ribbons that masquerade as streamers are strewn across the side of the large dining table and tied in bows around the backs of all the chairs.

Far more chairs than we need.

It’s just the four of us. It’salwaysjust the four of us. Well, soon to be five if you include the iPad perched on the table.

“And no one thinks this is a bit over the top?” I gesture to the balloon arch skillfully composed in a perfect pink hombre that sits in the center of the room where a sprawled-out strip of pink carpet ends.

Am I supposed to stand under there and take vows?I will.I will vow to never agree to meet these crazies for a quick morning celebration ever again.

“Not even a little bit.” Quinn’s eyes narrow at me. “And this is nothing compared to my last birthday party.”

“That was different,” I argue.

“There was a stripper, Addie.A stripper.”

“Hey! Pedro is a highly sought-after exotic dancer and he was not easy to book. So again…you’re very welcome.” I press my lips in a flat line trying not to cave in laughter. Pedro was near forty, rocked a taut six-pack, and had less hair than a dolphin. He looked like a black Emmy award, smooth and so freaking shiny.

Reese bobs her head side to side sending her shiny blonde curls into a rhythmic bounce. “Bear, Pedro’s an escort.”

She calls me Bear just as I sometimes call her Pieces. Because ‘Addie-Bear’ and ‘Reese’sPieces’ requires an unnecessary verbal commitment for friends who are as close as we are.

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