The truth is, I wasn’t really thinking when I said it. I was reacting impulsively, just like I was when I kissed Martin. Knowing that Smith had my old ring to propose to someone new made me question why I wasn’t remarried. I mean, I know why I’m not married. You have to date someone seriously in order to get married, and all of my serious relationships post-Smith have been with the male characters I’ve created in my books. And all of that seemed OK. My life in San Francisco with Jackie and Chelsey and our future bookstore felt like more than enough because when I’m there, I’m not in competition with my family. I’m free to just be me.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“I’m a smart guy.”
“Some other time.” I yawn. “It’s past my bedtime.”
Martin nods. “I’ll let you get some sleep. Goodnight, Banks.”
“Goodnight.”
Chapter 13
When I wake up, I’m greeted by the not-so-subtle reminder that while I may be sleeping in my teenage bed, my body is definitely over thirty. My head throbs with what I can already tell will be a baby hangover, my mouth tastes like the bottom of a trash can, and my back feels like someone tried to twist it into a pretzel. I check the time, expecting it to be much later than the bright and early 7:00 a.m. that’s glaring at me on my phone screen.
I scroll through my phone, debating whether I should go back to sleep. Maybe the key to waking up refreshed like a teenager is to sleep past noon like a teenager.
There’s a new text from an hour ago in my group chat with Phoebe and Falon.
Phoebe: We’re doing a turkey trot 5K this morning. You’re welcome to join!
Falon: You get a free t-shirt!
Ew. Why do people think that giving a run a cute name automatically makes the run fun? If gynos called it a turkey Pap and offered a free pair of underwear, would people be more willing to sign up? Just when I was starting to think that being in a group text with my sister and her future wife was cute, Phoebe had to ruin it with physical activity.
Penny: I don’t turkey trot.
Penny: And I brought my own t-shirts.
I’m about to close my phone and go back to sleep when a text from an unknown number pops onto my screen.
Unknown: Hey, it’s me. I got your number from your sister.
Apparently, Phoebe’s had a much more productive morning than I have. I save Martin’s number to my phone.
Penny: The snitch strikes again.
Martin: I wanted to see if you maybe wanted to grab some coffee this morning. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.
Penny: Is it Dolly Parton? I’ve always wanted to meet Dolly.
Martin: Not exactly.
Penny: Fine. Starbucks?
Martin: They’re open on Thanksgiving?
Penny: Starbucks and Cher never sleep.
I do the mental math of the amount of physical exertion it will take for me to make myself look presentable, which is challenging considering the fact my hangover is growing by the second.
“Penny!” Nana Rosie’s voice bellows over the intercom. “Are you awake?”
I really need to figure out how to disassemble that thing. “Penny’s not here.”
“Then who, may I ask, am I speaking to?”
“Cher.” I flip my hair for effect and don my best Cher voice. “Whoa.”