Page 2 of The Art of Almost Losing It
“I have self-esteem.”
Piper points. “You bought those shoes at Costco.”
“I like Costco! And I didn’t lie because I want a husband—I mean, I do—but I just wanted to belong. All our other friendsare engaged or married. I’ve got like five weddings this year, including Colette’s and my brother’s. I haven’t even dated, and they’re all talking about planning their pregnancies.” I trail off.
“Those girls are not your friends—oh my god.” Piper paces. “I don’t know why you want to impress these people.”
“I don’t really,” I backtrack. “It’s just that our moms are friends, so I need to keep the peace.”
It’s my go-to excuse with Piper.
She wouldn’t understand.
My dirty secret is that Idesperatelywant to be like them—the cool girls, with their sleek blowouts and their designer clothes and their casual invitations to meet up for dinner or drinks.
I want to be besties with them.
“You should have just told them you’re a happy dog mom.”
“Not that happy.” I glare at Lulu, my French bulldog, who whines and sits on my foot. “She ate my used tampon this morning.”
“God, your life is a shit show,” Piper yells at the darkening sky.
“Maybe I could ask Craig and then be like, Surprise! I just said my boyfriend was rich and powerful to throw you off!”
“Craig with aK? You know a work crush is supposed to be hot, right?” Piper puts her hands on her hips.
“I’m trying to keep my standards realistic. Also, a security guard is sort of well-paid, right?”
“Nice of you to keep that energy at the company Christmas party. You really went big with the lie. Rich and tallandhot?”
“At least I didn’t say he had blue-black hair and purple eyes,” I joke desperately. “I’m never drinking Christmas tequila punch again, that’s for sure.”
“Really? Because I could use a drink.”
“Maybe I should just tell them we broke up?” I chew on my lip.
“Or you can aggressively date. Take PTO and focus. Put that unhealthy spreadsheet coping mechanism to work. You can dredge up someone in the next few days.”
“I don’t really have the time—I have the Everhart project due.” I trail off and bite my lip as I look at my computer inside.
“This is your life, your future!” Piper demands. “Maybe this is the kick in the pants you need to make some changes. Stop living in your parents’ dining room.”
“You live there too,” I remind her.
Piper doesn’t get it. I’m an analyst—we’re the ones who actually do all the work. She’s an office assistant. She can go home before 8:00 p.m. without everyone thinking she’s a lazy slob.
The door out to the deck opens. Thunder rolls, and chilly rain starts to ping against the awning covering the Brazilian-hardwood deck.
Colette steps out, balancing on her sharp Louboutins that I’d never in a million years be able to wear for more than twenty seconds.
My frenemy tosses her glossy blowout.
She’s flanked by Greta, Maya, and Nora.
The Girl Squad.
“There you are, Dani. I thought you might have skipped work to get swept off your feet by your hunky, rich mystery man.”
