Notes from the Backseat
Jody Gehrman

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Thursday, September 18, 7:10 a.m.

Thursday, September 18, 8:45 a.m.

Thursday, September 18, 10:23 a.m.

Thursday, September 18, 11:20 a.m.

Thursday, September 18, 12:45 p.m.

Thursday, September 18, 10:10 p.m.

Friday, September 19, 5:24 a.m.

Friday, September 19, 9:04 a.m.

September 19, 11:11 a.m.

September 19, 1:46 p.m.

September 19, 3:10 p.m.

Still the same (very long) Friday, 6:50 p.m.

Friday (Christ, will this day never end?), 8:00 p.m.

Saturday, Sept. 20, 4:12 a.m.

Saturday, September 20, 11:20 a.m.

Saturday, September 20, 4:33 p.m.

Saturday, September 20, 6:00 p.m.

Saturday, September 20, Midnight

Sunday, September 21, 2:30 a.m.

Monday, September 22, 12:10 p.m.

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my agent, Dorian Karchmar, and my editor, Margaret Marbury, for their hard work on my behalf. Thanks to their assistants, too, Adam Schear and Adam Wilson, who never failed to get back to me and were always on top of their game. My lovely comrade Terena Scott read endless drafts of Gwen’s adventures and continually believed in her, even when I had my doubts. My web designer and good friend, Rosey Larson, is an endless source of encouragement and support. Tommy Zurhellen trained his keen eye on early incarnations and lent his usual priceless feedback to the mix (complete with bad jokes and adorable sketches). Bart Rawlinson offered a steady stream of advice, inspiration and delicious meals to get me through the long haul. Thanks to my family for their continual love and support, especially my mom and dad, who read my rough drafts with an enthusiasm only parents can sustain. As usual, my biggest thanks goes to David Wolf, who put up with more tantrums and freak-outs over this manuscript than any man should ever have to bear.

PROLOGUE

My best friend, Gwen, talks like an auctioneer when she’s excited. Her hands flit about and her mouth moves so rapidly she’s already halfway through the story by the time you can say, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up. Start at the beginning.” Her mind has a tendency to race ahead, and getting her to explain anything in a simple, chronological sequence is almost impossible. This time, though, she spelled it all out pretty clearly, with only occasional lapses into stream-of-consciousness neuroses peppered with expletives. Who could blame her for those little slips though, when the Creature from Planet Blonde was treating her like the gassy old family dog, making her ride in the backseat for thirteen hours on twisty coastal roads, filling her head with suspicions about Coop, who’s probably the only man in the western hemisphere with the body of a rock star but the heart of a—

Oh, wait. I’m doing it now, too, aren’t I? Okay, let me back up a little.

I was packing for Paris when I realized I had absolutely nothing to wear. It was one of those dry-mouthed, cold-sweat moments that sometimes hit you when you’re leaving the country in less than twenty-four hours with your very French fiancé to meet his upper-crust Parisian parents. We were staying for a month and so far I’d packed my favorite pair of threadbare plaid pajamas, the oversized Mickey Mouse T-shirt I’ve been wearing since I was twelve, a pair of ancient Levi’s with four patches sewn into the butt and my toothbrush. I’m not very schooled in the art of fashion, but even I knew I couldn’t very well make a glamorous impression with that wardrobe—at least, not without accessorizing heavily.

There was no question. I had to see Gwen, stat.

A little background: I met Gwen twelve years ago, during our sophomore year at Analy High. I was the new kid, walking around with that dazed, I’m-never-going-to-survive-until-three-o’clock catatonic stare. The minute I stepped foot in the Home Ec room I spotted her and my listless I-don’t-care-if-you-talk-to-me-or-not mask slipped away just like that. The morning sunlight through the dirty windows lit her like a starlet waiting for her close-up. She was wearing leopard-print kitten heels and a boxy 1950’s pink wool suit. At her throat was a strand of pearls, matching earrings shone from the dark, meticulously arranged sweep of her shoulder-length bob. But here was the touch that rendered her truly surreal—the over-the-top Gwenism that made me wonder if I’d stumbled through a metaphysical portal and come out in 1957: on her head was a pillbox hat. It sat at just the right, casually precise, slightly flirtatious angle, and I could tell by her smirk that she knew the effect was dazzling.

Gwen Matson’s reputation at Analy High could be summed up in two words: total freak. Everyone there considered her a tragic example of what could happen if you were just a little too weird to be cool. She was cuter, smarter and better dressed than anyone at that small town school—she was even valedictorian and yearbook editor—but the popular kids treated her like a leper because she insisted on walking around in pillbox hats, patent leather shoes and kid gloves. This was the nineties and Grunge was King. Gwen was the anti-Grunge; she’d sooner set her own hair on fire than don a flannel shirt.

In sharp contrast to Gwen’s stubborn eccentricity, I was a die-hard conformist. Gwen’s willingness to stand out terrified me, so much so that I was afraid, in those first few seconds, to befriend her. I hesitated there in the doorway of that stuffy Home Ec room, hovering between my just-try-not-to-be-noticed past and the bright pink future of a friendship with Gwen. I guess her allure was more powerful than my fear, because I stepped forward and said in a small, trembling voice, “Hi. My name’s Marla.” She seized my pale fingers and we shook hands like the wives of ambassadors meeting on the steps of the White House. “Gwen Matson,” she said. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

As soon as we finished high school we ditched that northern California hippie town and headed off to UCLA together. I studied modern dance—a useless degree, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m very impractical. It’s one of the few things Gwen and I have in common, though for me it manifests in a rather crippling inability to make a decent living. Gwen’s impractical in a different way; she’ll pack four mink stoles, three pairs of stilettos, a satin gown and a cigarette holder for a trip to my Colorado hunting cabin in December. She doesn’t even smoke. On the career front, though, Gwen’s impressively together. She double majored in business and costume design. Now, at twenty-eight, she owns a beautiful little vintage clothing store in Los Feliz and she designs for a handful of little theatre and indie film companies scattered throughout L.A. It’s widely understood that Gwen only designs for period pieces, and only when the period is somewhere between 1952 and 1963. Everyone’s learned not to even call her unless their show falls between those dates; otherwise, their Juliets always end up looking suspiciously like Jackie O.

Determined to solicit Gwen’s professional advice, I left my barely packed suitcase gaping open on my bed and drove east from Santa Monica toward Los Feliz. On the way, I stopped at a Rite Aid and bought a few things I’d need for the trip: Visine, mascara, ear plugs, a French manicure kit (when in Rome…). On my way to the register I passed through the stationary aisle and a small leather-bound book caught my eye. It looked completely out of place there amidst the juvenile primary-colored spiral-bound notebooks and plastic neon pencil boxes. It had a soft, buttery cover and the pages felt substantial as I flipped through them. I couldn’t find a price tag, but I stuck it in my plastic shopping basket anyway. It was an impulse buy, like the Snickers bar or Cosmo you snag just before you reach the checkout—it had the same reckless, slightly sinful flavor, even though I wouldn’t normally classify a blank book as indulgent.

When I got to the register, the girl rang up everything else, her long, clawlike fingernails flying over the keys with practiced ease. When she got to the journal, though, she stood snapping her gum, flipping it this way and that with a puzzled look. “Where’d you get this?” She had a thick accent, maybe Puerto Rican.

“Um—stationary aisle,” I said.

“This is not a product we carry.”

I furrowed my brow. “But…it was there. On the shelf.”

“I don’t know what this is.” She snapped her gum some more, then called out to a short, acne-ridden boy at the next register. “Hey, Tom, you know what this is?”

The boy glanced over his shoulder. “Looks like some kind of book.” He went back to ringing up an endless pile of Huggies for a sad-eyed mother.

All at once I could see they weren’t going to sell it to me, and the thought made me feel oddly bereaved—even a little desperate. “You know what? I just realized. That’s my journal. I bought it at a bookstore down the street.” I reached out and yanked it from her, laughing my most convincing vapid laugh.

She looked suspicious, but only shook her head in a way that communicated her thoughts on the subject perfectly (“Why didn’t you say so in the first place, bitch?”). She announced my total and handed me my receipt. I escaped with the mysterious book tucked safely inside the white plastic sack, feeling as if I’d gotten away with something.

I’m not religiously inclined, but I do believe in fate and omens and mysterious forces pulsing just under the surface of our painfully normal lives. Looking back on it, I see myself as a messenger that day, a delivery girl, probably one of millions, transporting a necessary object from one place to another. I was like an ant, clutching a crumb in my pincers, following my instincts blindly, all the while working for the good of the colony.

I had no way of knowing that little leather-bound journal would save my friend’s life. Well, her love life, at least—which maybe, in the end, is the same thing.

I pushed the glass door open and the bells jangled brightly, drawing Gwen’s attention. She was at the counter in a bold black-and-white spiral-print sheath. In one gloved hand she gripped her phone—the retro kind that makes you think immediately of Marlene Dietrich in a feather boa, lounging on satin sheets. Her lips were painted that old-fashioned cherry red that no one under the age of eighty can pull off. Except Gwen, of course.

“So, tomorrow, then?” she was saying into the phone as her eyes followed me around the store. I was browsing, but without much intent. I knew I would have to surrender to her superior taste if I was going to pack a suitcase filled with Paris-worthy ensembles. “Eight o’clock? You think she can get here from San Diego that early?” There was a pause. Gwen played with the rhinestone earring in her hand. She considers pierced ears gauche and always removes her right clip-on before answering the phone, just like the women of film noir. “Okay, great. I guess I’ll see you then. Can’t wait. Bye.”

“Was that Coop?” I asked as she hung up.

She nodded, looking dazed. “Oh my God, Marla. What am I going to do?”

“About what?”

She let out a gusty sigh and adjusted the white scarf at her throat as if she found it suddenly constricting. “We’re leaving for our trip tomorrow.”

“Oh, right—to Mendocino?”

She nodded, and I noticed then that she’d gone utterly pale. I let go of the wool blazer I’d been examining and went to the counter. “What is it, G? I thought you were really looking forward to that.”

“Was looking forward to it, yes. Not now.”

I folded my arms. “Uh-oh. What month is this?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, we’ve been dating three months, but—”

“Gwen, don’t do this. You always do this.”

She slapped the counter and her gloved palm made a hollow thudding sound against the glass. “I’m not doing anything! Guess whose retreat got canceled because the swami kicked it?”

“What?” She was losing me, here.

“Oh, God.” She yanked at her scarf again, this time more violently. “I’m going to have a panic attack. I can feel it.”

“No, you won’t. Just breathe. Come on, in and out—you remember. Innn…ooouut. There you go. That’s right.” I spoke in soft, placating tones like a Lamaze coach. “Here, let’s just get that scarf off, okay?” I reached over and untied it with considerable effort; in tugging at it, she’d worked it into a tight little fist of a knot, but I managed to get it off her and a faint wash of pink started to bloom in her cheeks again.

“So, let’s just start at the beginning,” I said when I was confident she wouldn’t hyperventilate. “Whose retreat got canceled?”

“Dannika’s,” she croaked.

“And who’s Dannika?”

“Coop’s best friend from college.”

“Okay,” I said. “So, she’s going to Mendocino with you?”

She nodded, her face the picture of misery. “She’s driving us. Coop’s car is too small.”

“And why is this freaking you out? Because she’s female?”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Female, I could handle. In spite of your insinuation, I’ve come a long way. Coop has no idea of my unstable past. Unfortunately, this particular female friend—his best friend,” she enunciated the words and raised her voice slightly, imbuing the phrase with ominous significance, “happens to be a statuesque, blond, stunningly beautiful, world-class yoga goddess.”

My eyes widened. “Wait a minute. You’re not talking about Dannika Winters, are you? The Dannika Winters?”

She slapped the counter again and this time the glass rattled, sending a display of sparkly chokers sprawling across the floor. “Yes! I’m talking about the Dannika Winters!”

“Oh my God. That is so cool. I’ve got like four of her DVDs.”

Gwen’s jaw dropped in indignant shock. “Is this what I need to hear right now?”

I put my hand on hers. “I’m sorry, G, you’re right. That was totally insensitive. I mean, no wonder you’re freaking out. She’s like Uma Thurman, Grace Kelly and Cameron Diaz all wrapped up into one incredibly flexible, probably totally vegan body.”

“Marla,” she said, her voice a warning.

“But I’m sure she’s unbelievably shallow with no real substance.” I saw Gwen’s brown eyes regain some of their sparkle when I said this, so I pressed on, ad-libbing bravely. “I bet her poses are done by stunt doubles. When she’s supposed to be meditating, she’s actually doing her nails.”

“You’re so right.” Gwen’s mouth curved into a wicked smile. “I bet she’s got the IQ of a hamster.”

“Oh, totally. You think anyone who looks that good can conjugate verbs?”

A shadow of doubt passed over her features. “She did go to college, though…”

“So what? Anyone can go to college these days. She’s the Vanna White of yoga. She’ll be a has-been before her time. Sad, really.”

“You’re right,” she said. “Who cares about stupid old Dannika Winters? She’s no threat to me.”

I clapped my hands. “Exactly! She’s Coop’s friend, you’re his girlfriend. Period.”

Her face fell. “Wait a minute. What if he’s leaving something out? Suppose they’re more like…friends with benefits?”

“Right. Because he’d definitely want to be trapped in a car for sixteen hours with his girlfriend and the chick he’s doing it with on the side.”

She cocked her head. “I guess you’re right. That would be pretty masochistic of him.”

I reached down and gathered the chokers up, then tried to return them to a display shaped like a woman’s throat and shoulders, sculpted in soft, sensual lines out of some sort of pale, opalescent material that made me think of the inner sheen of abalone shells. She took the necklaces from me when she saw my inept attempts to arrange them on the display and, with expert fingers, draped them in provocative shapes across the throat and clavicle, setting off the imitation rubies and sapphires so that they looked like they belonged in Tiffany’s.

“I like Coop a lot,” I said, looking her in the eye. “More importantly, I think you like him a lot. This is no time to pull your classic three-month guy freak-out thing.”

She shook her head. “I’m not doing that. I swear.”

For as long as I’d known her, Gwen had been living out the same pattern with men, repeating her mistakes over and over like a scratched record. She’d date a guy, get to know him, start to like him, then as soon as they hit the three-month mark, she’d dump him. Like clockwork. And always for the same reason: she was convinced he would, if given the chance, cheat on her. A couple years ago she dumped this incredibly hunky USC sociology professor when she saw the line of perky little coeds loitering outside his office. Another time she gave a Swedish chiropractor the boot because he kept unused toothbrushes in his bathroom for overnight guests. Sometimes, all a guy had to do was glance over her shoulder at an attractive woman walking in the door and Gwen would instantly relegate him to the Tomb of Boyfriends Past.

What it came down to, really, was that Gwen had serious jealousy issues. She knew it, I knew it, every guy she’d ever gone out with knew it. The thought that Coop might end up as another casualty in Gwen’s mysterious war against potential infidelity made me ache with sadness. It wasn’t just because I’d seen her pull the same old trick so many times it was dizzying. No, it was more than that. If Gwen dumped Coop or drove him away with her compulsive suspicions, it would be more than just annoying this time. It would be tragic. Because I knew, in that weird, bone-deep way that best friends sometimes do, that Gwen and Coop were made for each other.

Just like Gwen and I, Gwen and Coop were opposites on the surface. He was a big guy; that was what you noticed about him first. Next to Gwen’s petite, five-foot-two frame, his six-feet-and-then-some looked even more hulking by contrast. He wore old, ratty T-shirts and paint-splattered jeans. His hair was long and usually looked neither washed nor combed. He was a carpenter—a woodworker. He made furniture in his basement that was rough and solid and vaguely bohemian, like him. But the thing I liked best about Coop was the warmth in his rich, hazel eyes. When you looked into his face, you could sense the vast, sun-drenched landscape that lived inside him and all the room he had in there for lost souls. I feared he might be the only man on the planet capable of handling my best friend’s fragile, skittish little heart.

“Look at it this way,” I said. “Coop and Dannika have been friends since college, right? They’ve probably known each other—what? Seven, eight years?”

She nodded, frowning.

“If they haven’t gotten together in all that time, they must not have chemistry. I mean, otherwise, they’d have at least given it a go, right?”

“Riiight,” she said, drawing out the word in a way that implied she wasn’t convinced.

“You know how it is. Sometimes you’re just not attracted to someone, no matter how hot they are. I bet it’s like that with them. They’re like brother and sister—absolutely no fizz.”

“Or maybe it’s more like seven years of foreplay,” she grumbled. “By the time they get it on, the simultaneous orgasm will probably blind them.”

I laughed. “Stop being neurotic. Do you hear me? Coop is crazy about you.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

She pulled off one of her gloves and fretted with it. “The thing is, if I go on this trip, he’s going to see how wiggy-jealous I get. He just will. There’s no way around it.”

She looked so small and vulnerable, I wanted to put my arms around her. “Gwen, it’s not the end of the world if he sees you at your worst. He’s probably not going to run screaming just because you’re human. Be honest with him. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

“I’ve got Coop to lose!” she pouted. “Not to mention my pride.”

“Yes, I know, but if you can’t be yourself with him, there’s really nothing there worth saving.”

She replaced her clip-on earring and forced a brave smile. “You’re right. I’m being stupid. I’ll go on this trip, meet his friends, everyone will love me, I’ll love them, and we’ll all live happily ever after.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Now, can you please help me find some clothes that don’t make me look cheap, dumpy or American? I realized today I can’t possibly meet Jean-Paul’s parents in my Mickey Mouse T-shirt.”

“What?” she gasped. “Confirmed slob seeks flattering attire?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. “Whatever. Just, can we get this over with?”

An hour later, Gwen had found me three versatile, elegant, wrinkle-proof outfits that made my thighs look slimmer, my bones more pronounced and my split ends fashionably intentional. She’s a genius. I tried to force my credit card on her, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

As we were hugging goodbye, I got my brilliant idea.

“Listen,” I said. “I’ve got something for you. Wait here.” I ran out to my car, checked the meter, and grabbed the little journal from my plastic Rite Aid bag. Then I dashed back to Gwen’s store and pressed it into her hands.

“What’s this?” She looked at it and then at me with a quizzical expression.

“Take it with you on your trip. If you start to feel anxious or threatened or even slightly inclined to dump Coop, just write out your thoughts until you calm down, okay?”

She laughed uneasily. “Is this some sort of New Age therapy?”

“It’ll give you some perspective, that’s all.”

“Okay. Well, thanks. It’s…really nice.”

“It’s a going away present.”

Her eyes searched mine. “Diaries have never been my style, but I’ll give it a try.”

“If it doesn’t work within the first ten pages,” I said, “invest in some Valium.”

Thirteen days later, the journal arrived at Jean-Paul’s parents’ house in Paris, wrapped in plain brown paper. It wasn’t alone, though. There were three others: a tiny spiral-bound notebook, a legal pad and a slick journal with whales on the cover that said Mendocino Coast. Every page had been filled with Gwen’s old-fashioned, elegantly loopy cursive. As I flipped though them, I saw that sometimes her perfect handwriting gave way to harsh, nearly-illegible scribbles and in places it looked like she’d pressed so hard into the paper that it threatened to tear.

I pretended I wasn’t feeling well and urged Jean-Paul and his parents to visit yet another museum without me. It was just as well. If I had to “oooh” and “ahhh” over more Matisse, I feared I might lose it. After they’d gone, I stuffed all four journals into my bag, went to a café down the street, bought a cappuccino and sat down to read them cover to cover.

Thursday, September 18

7:10 a.m.

Dear Marla,

I decided it’s just too daft to fill a book with notes to myself. It’s so egocentric—I’d feel like some kind of New Age narcissist—so I’m going to address all my self-absorbed narcissism to you. How’s that for passing the buck?

Actually, I probably won’t write in this at all. I feel very optimistic about this whole trip, now. The freak-out I went through yesterday is a distant memory. It’s early morning, I’ve had my tea and I’m all packed. The light in Los Feliz is unusually golden and (here’s the real miracle) I managed to fit all my clothes for the weekend into the leopard-print luggage set: one large case, one medium, a handbag and a hatbox. Not bad, eh? I’m sure Coop will be impressed that I travel light.

Of course, the shoes had to go in a separate trunk, but so what? I’ll just slip that in casually when no one’s looking.

All in all, I’m the picture of the elegant, poised traveler.

Hope your journey to Paris goes well today. So exciting! I can’t wait for you to come home so we can swap stories.

Kiss, kiss,

Gwen

Thursday, September 18

8:45 a.m.

Shit! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!

Okay, I know, breathe. If I hyperventilate back here they won’t even notice. I’ll be a blue-faced corpse and they’ll have no idea until we hit the first pit stop. Marla, I don’t want to die alone, in the backseat, wedged uncomfortably between a surfboard and a trunk full of my best shoes!

Then again, at least my white go-go boots will be with me in my last hours.

They suck. Totally, utterly.

Coop and Dannika that is, not the go-go boots.

Why did I ever think I could seriously be with Coop? If he’s in league with this Satan in Organic Cotton, I want nothing to do with him.

Oh, there they go laughing. Ha ha ha ha ha. The world is so deliciously funny when you’re a big, gorgeous guy riding shotgun with your delectable supermodel hippie chick behind the wheel. Never mind the lump of a girlfriend pouting in the backseat. She’s just there to keep the surfboards from flying away.

Marla, what am I going to do? I’m being held hostage by a couple of excessively beautiful bohemians with no appreciation whatsoever for fine luggage, vintage travel wear or—in short—me.

Right. I know what you would say. Just back up, slow down, start from the beginning.

I’ll try. Thank God I never get carsick. I have a feeling putting pen to paper at the moment is the only thing between me and double homicide.

So, back to the beginning. Let’s see…where did I leave off?

As I mentioned, early this morning my outlook was bright and my outfit was impeccable. I was wearing my low-belted chemise suit in autumn green, my leopard-print car coat, and my signature leopard-print kitten heels. I’d tied a green scarf over my hair and at the last minute I added those huge, Jackie O sunglasses you love. No point in modesty here, I looked positively elegant. I surveyed myself in the mirror and was convinced that no matter how glamorous Coop’s best friend might be, I’d give her a run for her money.

Dannika was driving up from San Diego, and since I live farther south than Coop, she was picking me up first. I heard her car pull up, but by the time I got to the window, she was already out of view. I waited for the doorbell, took a deep breath, turned the knob and pulled.

There she was. All the air left my lungs and I stood in the doorway dumbstruck. I know you have her yoga tapes and she’s enough of a D-list celebrity, what with her new show and all, to warrant casual recognition from most people, but seeing her in person is a different experience entirely.

She’s stunning. There’s no other word for it.

I wish I could say her teeth are showing signs of decay or her boobs need propping up—that the way she looks onscreen is all make-up, lighting and flattering camera angles—but the truth is, in person she’s five million times more beautiful than she is on TV. Is that just slit-your-wrists depressing or what? Her hair is so shiny-blond, so long and healthy and shampoo-commercial-bouncy, it hardly seems real. I swear the Los Feliz light was caressing every strand, spilling sparkles into the air around her until her whole head was surrounded by a lemon-hued halo. Her skin was dewy-fresh, lightly tanned and radiant. Her eyes were a deep ocean color—Malibu on a good day. She was at least five foot eight and her body was so fit and toned, it’s hard to imagine any inch of her succumbing to sag or cellulite. She was wearing a tank top—one of those sporty little REI numbers with spaghetti straps and a built-in bra—and loose-fitting, wide-legged yoga pants that hung just low enough on her slender hips to reveal an inch of brown belly and a pierced navel. Flip-flops on her feet, sunglasses propped in her hair, a few fleamarket silver bracelets on her arm, a string of jade beads around her neck and a tiny diamond stud in her nose; those were the accessories that set off her features with the irritating minimalism of an all-natural hippie bombshell.

Her fashion choices are diametrically opposed to my own. She’s Zen simplicity, I’m Catholic excess. She’s flip-flops, I’m kitten heels. She’s hemp and organic cotton, I’m wool gabardine and cashmere. She’s green tea lip balm, I’m candy-apple-red lipstick.

I wish I could feel disdain for her aesthetic, but let’s face it: the look works for her. And then some.

The moment I laid eyes on her, I could feel the ugly tide of envy and insecurity poisoning my blood. She just stood there, beaming at me. She took a step toward me and before I knew what was happening, she had me wrapped up in a hug that smelled of some heady essential-oil mixture—maybe jasmine cut with ylang-ylang. When she pulled away, I could see her lips moving, but I couldn’t quite make out the words. I was in shock, I guess. Somehow I managed to mumble a generic response that I hoped would match her greeting in some vaguely logical way. She went back to beaming at me, so I guess I succeeded.

When she saw my luggage, her big, radiant, white-toothed smile died on her lips.

“You taking…all this?”

I nodded. “It is a wedding, right? I couldn’t very well go to a wedding without a hat or two.” I patted my hatbox affectionately.

“Well, it’s a…casual wedding,” she said, looking worried. “Are you sure you’ll need this many suitcases? Phil and Joni are pretty low-key. They live in the woods.”

“I brought casual, too. I like to be prepared for every circumstance.”

“Yeah,” she said, still eyeing my cases uneasily. “Right. Well, let’s just drag it all out to the car and see what we can do.”

You know how I’ve always wanted a convertible—obviously an enormous, gas-guzzling beast from the late ’50s? Of course, the fact that I can’t drive and have no desire to learn puts a slight damper on this yearning, but occasionally I peruse eBay’s classic car pages anyway, just for fun. Well, when I saw Dannika’s car, my heart, already dangerously close to failure, dropped two stories and bounced hard in the pit of my stomach. It was the most beautiful vehicle you could possibly imagine: a ’57 Mercury convertible, fire-engine red, totally cherry. Propped up in the backseat with its fins in the air was a slightly battered lemon-yellow surfboard. The whole tableau was achingly California, right down to the chrome hubcaps glittering in the sun like precious gems.

I should have been excited. Here I was, about to ride shotgun in the car of my dreams. In a matter of minutes we’d be heading up the coast to spend the weekend in a rugged seaside village, where I’d bond with my new beau and his incredibly hip, glamorous friends. Dannika’s car should have filled me with hope. I should have been thinking about how great my leopard-print car coat and oversized glasses were going to look peeking out of that Mercury with the top down.

But that’s not what was running through my brain. The single, white-hot, stomach-churning thought that was tearing through my consciousness was this: if you like the same car, you like the same guy.

Period.

Dannika had popped the trunk by now and was wrestling with my suitcases. Her shoulders were pure, sculpted muscle and they rippled as she heaved the largest case into the cavernous trunk. I could see no problem; the boot on that Mercury was so enormous, we could have fit five times as much luggage. All she’d brought besides the surfboard, as far as I could tell, was an old, weather-beaten backpack and a wet suit. Seeing all that room, I was tempted to run inside for my mink, since I know it can get chilly in Mendocino. But I could tell by the way Dannika was huffing that she wouldn’t appreciate an additional item added to the cargo.

“Wow,” she said, loading the medium suitcase. “What have you got in here? Cement?”

“Mostly toiletries.”

That’s when I remembered the trunk of shoes I’d left in the hallway.

“Oh, just one more thing,” I said, handing her the hat box. “I’ll be right back.” I was tempted to ask if she could get it, but I didn’t want to admit she was in better shape than me and I didn’t want her smile, which was already getting tight around the edges, to go completely rigid. I wished she’d picked Coop up first so he could load everything and smooth the tension with his warm, contagious laughter. Somehow, he’d find a way to spin it so he was the butt of the joke, not me.

I came back out with my trunk and, let me tell you, getting it to the sidewalk was no easy task. Guess I never realized just how heavy shoes can be. To my horror, I was starting to sweat by the time I finally made it back to the car.

When Dannika saw me standing there proudly with my trunk of shoes (which was, by the way, hardly any bigger than the mini-fridge we had in college, so what was the big deal?) she folded her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow.

As you can imagine, that look filled me with a fresh surge of resentment. First, the cocked eyebrow is my signature look. No one can pull it off like me, as I’m sure you’ll agree. But beyond that, she was using it out of context, which is never acceptable. The raised eyebrow is a form of punctuation and to use it without due cause renders it as offensive and sloppy as a random comma or semicolon dropped into the middle of a perfectly good sentence. To think that my innocent little trunk of shoes caused a raised eyebrow was, simply put, insulting. Not to mention stupid.

“Everything okay?” I asked coolly.

She slammed the trunk shut with more force than was absolutely required and jutted her chin at my final piece of luggage. “Why don’t you just shove that in the backseat?”

“Oh, there’s room in the trunk, isn’t there?”

“Coop needs some space, too.”

I nodded. “Yeah, but he won’t bring much. You know boys—just a couple T-shirts and a toothbrush, I bet.”

“Unlike some people,” she said under her breath. “Anyway, it’s fine, just throw it in the backseat.”

I did, but not without tweaking a muscle between my shoulder blades as I tried to display how effortlessly I could haul it up off the sidewalk and into the convertible without even bothering to open the door. I don’t recommend it. The pain was unbearable and even now I can feel a dull, throbbing ache near my spine. Of course, my pride had more power than my chiropractic issues, so I slapped a smile on and settled into the passenger seat, reaching instinctively for my seat belt. There was nothing there.

“Oh, no seat belts in this baby,” she said, throwing the Mercury into gear and lurching away from the curb roughly. “Sorry ’bout that. I never wear them, anyway. Just feels too restrictive, you know what I mean?”

Marla, I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, so please don’t think I’m weird, but I love seat belts. Death by highway is one of my more potent fears and the feel of that strap creating a band of resistance across my chest is, to me, delicious and comforting. I mean, statistically, the 405 is about a thousand times more likely to get us than cancer or terrorists or psycho killers. Most people are in denial about this, but for me it’s all too real. Every time I ride in a car, I feel my mortality pressing in on me like sticky, oppressive heat. I suppose that’s why I’ve never learned to drive; if I didn’t plow into a semi out of sheer terror, I’d surely contract a terminal stress-related disease within weeks.

Dannika apparently doesn’t share my road phobias. She tore through Los Feliz and over to Silver Lake like a New York cabbie on speed. Her hands rarely landed on the wheel. She was perpetually adjusting the radio, playing with her bracelets, swigging water, toying with her hair as it whipped about like a bright gold streamer. I gripped the armrest with one hand and pressed my feet into the floorboards to keep from flying through the windshield.

The only thing that saved us from a four-car pileup was that everyone—men, women, babies—stopped what they were doing as she drove past and stared at her golden beauty. It kept other cars from ramming into her and it cleared pedestrians from her path. As she tore up onto the sidewalk in front of Coop’s, steering with her knees while she applied her lip balm, I started to see what people mean by the phrase a charmed life.

“Hey!” Coop came bounding toward us, down the steps of his craftsman bungalow and over to the Mercury, a big smile taking up the better part of his face. “If it isn’t my favorite girls!”

Dannika screamed and bolted from the car as soon as she heard his voice. She leapt into his arms as if they were long-lost lovers separated for decades by war and famine. I felt this molten lump of something taking shape in my chest—jealousy, I guess, or rage or psychosis—whatever it was, I could feel it congealing and sizzling inside me, like doughnut batter dropped into a vat of boiling grease. I let myself out of the passenger’s side, hoping that by the time I walked calmly around the car the hug would be over, but when I got there Dannika was still clinging to him, her blond hair shining more brilliantly than ever in the sunlight, her slender tan arms clasped around his neck fiercely.

Over her shoulder, Coop’s eyes met mine and when I saw the apology there the dangerous lump inside my rib cage broke apart a bit. His face was saying, “Sorry, she’s…like this sometimes,” and somehow just sharing a secret look with him while Satan clung to him pathetically made me feel more poised again.

“Wow,” he said, when she finally loosened her grip enough to allow some air into his lungs. “Long time no see, huh?”

“Months!” She looked at him with an appraising eye, now. “You look different.”

“Really?” He stepped around her, then grabbed my hand and surprised me by leaning down and planting a firm, warm kiss on my lips right there in front of her. Not that Coop and I are stingy with kisses—it’s just that we don’t have much practice doing it in front of other people. Three months doesn’t give you loads of PDA opportunities, I guess.

“Hey, kitten,” he said into my ear. “You look so great. Love those shoes—God, what an outfit.” His voice made the already half-dissolved doughnut in my chest dissolve completely. I realized then that Dannika hadn’t commented on my travel ensemble. That’s the genius of Satan. You don’t recognize the affront until it’s too late to retaliate.

“You do, you look different,” Dannika repeated, sounding annoyed that he’d even greeted me. “Something’s changed. What is it? Did you lose weight?”

Coop patted his stomach, barely existent. “Don’t think so…”

“Shave or something?”

He touched his face, always sporting a couple days’ worth of stubble. “Yeah, right,” he laughed.

She shook her head, mystified. “Your aura’s different,” she said. “Are you getting enough vitamins?”

“Wait a minute, my aura needs vitamins?”

She slapped his shoulder. “Two separate observations, you moron!”

He looked at me. “I’m really happy for the first time in my life. That’s all.”

“Huh,” Dannika said. “Well, it doesn’t suit you.”

He shot her a look.

“It doesn’t! What can I say? You look underfed or something.”

I tried not to gloat, but I doubt I pulled it off. “I think he looks great.”

“Huh,” Dannika said again, and the irritation packed inside that one syllable only added to my joy.

Right. So that’s pretty much the good part of the day, in a nutshell. What followed was an arsenic cocktail with a ground glass chaser.

Where to begin?

Well, I doubt it escaped your attention: I’m in the backseat.

Which was okay, at first. I mean you know, Dannika was driving and I was hardly going to ride shotgun anymore with her behind the wheel—the view from up there was just too terrifying. The passenger seat isn’t nicknamed “the death seat” for nothing. I was just about to volunteer when Coop beat me to it.

“I’ll ride in back,” he said, tossing his duffel bag in the trunk and scooting in next to the surfboard. “Sweet!” he said. “You brought your board.”

“Where’s yours?” Dannika asked.

He hesitated. “You think there’s room?”

“Well, Gwen did bring four suitcases.” She said it sort of jokingly, sort of not. It was like she was tattling but pretending not to tattle, which really ended up being more annoying than if she’d just tattled outright.

I stared at her, unsmiling. “A hatbox is hardly a suitcase.”

Coop laughed and slung his arm around me. “Gwen’s a good Girl Scout—always prepared.”

Dannika flipped her hair over one shoulder. “Go get your board and suit—we’ll just shove it in somewhere. We haven’t surfed together in a million years! That’s half the reason I even agreed to come.”

Coop, being amiable and, really, so in love with surfing I could see he was salivating at the very thought, did what he was told. In a few minutes, he returned with his board under one arm and his wet suit under the other.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I grabbed my shortest board, but it’s going to make the backseat sort of cramped.”

“Gwen’s got short legs,” Dannika said, eyeing me.

Considering that she had long, lithe, slender legs, it seemed like a pointedly bitchy comment. When I looked her in the eye, though, she winked, like getting Coop to bring his board was this really fun mutual goal of ours—a sisterly effort—and her making me feel like a midget was all part of our coy, girlie plot.

“Gwen?” Coop said. “You going to back me on this?” He nodded at his board. “It’ll be in the way, don’t you think?”

I shrugged. “If you guys want to surf, bring it.” I’d be a sport. What was the big deal? I brought a trunk of shoes; he could bring his board if he wanted. “I don’t mind the back. That way you two can catch up.” There! I’d be generous. He’d think I was incredibly confident, not threatened in the least by the demonic blonde.

“Great!” Dannika’s eyes gleamed with victory. “Thanks so much, Gwen. We haven’t seen each other since…that night in Malibu?”

I felt my throat seize up. It was like a giant hand just reached over and closed my esophagus.

“Uh-huh.” Coop looked at me. “Dannika’s mom lives there,” he said, sensing my discomfort. Maybe sensing my imminent death due to lack of oxygen would be more accurate.

“That was so long ago,” Dannika continued, oblivious to my silent horror.

Why do the words night in Malibu sound so ominous when placed side by side in this context? Why couldn’t Coop have a horrible, pockmarked, male, alcoholic best friend who wears vomit-stained corduroys and refers to women only in anatomical terms? Why, why, why, why, why?

Coop let me into the backseat and took special care in arranging the boards in order to provide me with the maximum amount of legroom. Not that I needed any, according to Dannika. Yeah, don’t mind the Oompa-Loompa in the back; she’s just along for the ride.

Look, I know what you would say. Relax, Gwen. Breathe. You remember—in and out. There you go.

But do you realize I’ve been in the backseat for hours now and no one is paying any attention to me? Sure, every twenty minutes or so Coop glances back with one of his vaguely apologetic, sickeningly adorable grins. Once he asked me, “What are you writing?” to which I replied, “Just catching up on some correspondence.” That satisfied his curiosity a bit too readily. How does he know I’m not penning love letters to my six-foot-seven husband who currently resides in San Quentin? What does Coop care about that—he just listens to Dannika going on and on about the great times they’ve shared, careening wildly in and out of traffic. I can’t hear much of what they’re saying; random phrases drift back at me every now and then like bits of confetti, but I find little comfort in them. I hear Dannika calling out crazy night and that time in Seville and thought I’d die. I see her turning to him, her bright white teeth shining as she laughs, her profile so perfect and well-shaped it’s sculptural. They’re happily reminiscing, reliving their years of chummy intimacy, and I’m the recent acquisition, the girl-come-lately.

Okay, we’re stopping. I’ve got to snap out of this. I’m working myself into a fuming little wad of rage back here. Smoke’s coming out of my ears. If I don’t regain control, Coop is going to see I’m a possessive, pint-sized freak with no sense of humor.

More later…

Hugs and kisses from the Furious Midget,

Gwen

Thursday, September 18

10:23 a.m.

Dear Marla,

Since when is breakfast an organic banana, seven ounces of soy yogurt and a double shot of wheatgrass? This chick doesn’t eat enough to sustain a sparrow. God, I hope she develops a thyroid problem soon and becomes obscenely obese. Maybe then she’d know how the rest of us feel.

Okay, that’s not nice of me. I should exercise a little compassion. But do Nordic supermodels who live on nondairy yogurt and wheatgrass really deserve my compassion?

Here’s the thing: she hates me. I can tell.

And she’s after Coop.

Look, I know you said if they’ve been friends this long and they haven’t gotten together they obviously don’t have any chemistry. I knew at the time there was a gaping hole in your argument, but it took me this long to put my finger on it. You see, Coop’s never denied or confirmed the nature of their relationship history—he’s only referred to her as his “best friend.” He never sat me down and said, “Gwen, in case you’re wondering, Dannika and I never had sex.” Actually, come to think of it, I’ve barely heard any mention of Dannika at all in the three months we’ve been dating, except as an occasional character in the stories from his college days. I thought of her as a distant historical footnote, not as a rival worth considering. I was way more concerned about the cute blond barista with the crew cut who flirts with him at Café Europa.

But now it’s clear to me: they’ve definitely had sex. Maybe not recently, maybe not on a regular basis, but they’ve slept together.

I can’t decide what’s worse—knowing they’ve been intimate, or worrying that they’re dying to get intimate.

Whatever. The point is, they’ve done the deed and now I’ll have to live with it. Every time he gets me naked, I’ll have to wonder how my hideous little pygmy body measures up to her smooth airbrushed curves. Okay, yes, so I have more curves than she does, actually, but my curves aren’t the miles-of-flawless-skin kind; my curves have dimples and…you know…texture issues.

Is this productive in any way?

God, how am I going to get through this weekend?

Maybe if I just focus on the actual events, I’ll avoid a full-on panic attack.

We’re back on the road now, headed along the coast. No I-5 for this crowd—way too sterile, according to Dannika. She’s all about the scenic route, even if it means extending our estimated time of arrival by at least three hours.

The brief stop in Malibu was very enlightening. Satan was kind enough to yell over her shoulder that we’d be stopping soon for “breakfast.” I guess she was feeling guilty about shoving me back there like an ill-behaved pet and monopolizing my man’s attention. A few minutes later I found myself standing at the counter of a chichi little juice bar, staring at several cases of bright green wheatgrass behind glass. When I’d heard the word breakfast I had visions of greasy potatoes, syrup-drenched pancakes, a mocha piled high with whipped cream. I was ravenous and hunger always makes me a little edgy—you know how I get. It was easy to see as soon as we pulled up that this place wasn’t exactly the greasy spoon of my dreams. The menu was primarily liquid-based; there were smoothies with exotic names like Tahitian Sunrise and Arab Blue. In addition to wheatgrass, they were juicing things I never imagined you could drink, like beets and ginger, parsley and yams. In the solid-foods department there was soy yogurt, homemade granola, flaxseed protein bars and fruit salad. My stomach growled and I felt a surge of hunger-induced homicidal hysteria coming on.

“Dannika’s a raw food junkie,” Coop said when he noticed me staring in disbelief at the menu.

“So I gathered.” My voice sounded tight and strained.

“We could—you know—go somewhere else. What are you in the mood for? Doughnuts? Waffles? Hostess snack cakes?” He squeezed my shoulder affectionately.

Coop knows I have an insane sweet tooth. Can I help it if my body demands a sugar and caffeine rush every morning? Possibly I’m an undiagnosed diabetic—well, I could be. I was about to tell him a chocolate croissant from the bakery next door would be dreamy when I saw Dannika glance over at us with a smug, vegan smirk. God, I hate raw food freaks. They’re so righteous and clean looking, it makes you want to force-feed them Rice Crispies Treats until they puke.

Suddenly I was overcome with the desire to beat Dannika at her own game. Looking into her clear blue eyes, I could see my own short brunette self reflected there and I knew exactly what she was thinking; she saw me as a mere blip—a passing fancy of Coop’s, nothing more. She seemed almost disappointed in the lack of challenge I presented. Whether or not she wanted Coop for herself, it was clear she didn’t consider me worthy of him. In her mind, that was all that mattered. She’d already written me off. She would tolerate me for the duration of the weekend, but by Monday, I would be toast.

Well, she was wrong; I had to show her that I was a force to be reckoned with. I would demonstrate—forcibly, if I had to—that her approval wasn’t required.

If there is only room in Coop’s life for one of us, I’ll be damned if it’s me who’s getting ousted. He’s the first man I’ve ever met worth fighting for and if I have to sharpen my claws to keep him, so be it.

“You know what? I think the root juice sounds amazing,” I said.

Coop looked at the menu. “Carrot, beet, yam and ginger?” He eyed me skeptically. “You sure?”

“Mmm, hmm,” I said. “It sounds…cleansing.”

“Okay,” he said. “If you say so. I think I saw a bakery next door, though. Little mocha, chocolate croissant…” His offer was tempting and I was touched at how accurately he’d assessed my cravings, but I was determined to out-vegan the vegan, even if it killed me.

“No, really,” I said, “this is perfect.”

Dannika pretended not to be listening. She did some pretentious, show-offy upper body stretches as we waited for the anemic-looking woman in front of us to finish ordering. “The protein bar doesn’t contain any wheat, does it?” the lady asked, dabbing at her nose with a crumpled Kleenex. The bronzed surf God behind the counter assured her for the third time that everything they served was wheat and gluten-free.

When it was our turn, Dannika stepped forward gracefully, leaned one hip against the counter and said airily, “I’ll take a double shot of wheatgrass, one banana and a small soy yogurt, please.”

The guy’s face went from bored to astonished so quickly, it was like watching a flower bloom using time-lapse photography. “Are you—?” He blushed under his tan. “I’m sorry, but aren’t you Dannika Winters?”

Her smile was radiant. “That’s me.”

“Wow, this is so cool. My roommate has all your DVDs. God, she’s going to die when I tell her I met you. Would you mind—” he fumbled behind the counter and produced a napkin, then a pen “—signing this? It would mean a lot to her.”

“No problem.” Dannika bent over and the surf God eyed the cleavage revealed artfully beneath her tank top. “What’s her name?”

“Huh?” He looked dazed.

“Your roommate’s name?”

“Oh. Kyra,” he said, “K-Y-R-A.”

She wrote something on the napkin and signed it with a flourish, then pushed it across the counter.

He picked it up reverently. “She’s really going to lose her shit. I mean—sorry—you just made my day, is all.”

“You’re too sweet.” Dannika graced him with another celebrity smile.

Coop stepped forward. “Mind if we order?”

The kid folded the napkin carefully and put it in his pocket. He managed to concentrate long enough to jot down Coop’s request for an extra-large granola with vanilla yogurt and a protein smoothie. When it was my turn, I ordered my disgusting root concoction and tried smiling at the bronzed groupie with my own brand of electric charisma. He didn’t even notice. He just looked over my shoulder at Dannika, who was by the window, now, performing some kind of elaborate leg stretch against one of the stools.

You’ll be proud to hear that I managed to choke down my root juice without gagging. It tasted like something you’d scrape off the bottom of a lawn mower. Delish.

So now I’m in the backseat again, wedged between the surfboards and my trunk of shoes, with my self-esteem ankle-high. Plus, I’m starving. Apparently, this is where she wants me. I’m the backseat spectator, forced to watch as my nemesis undermines my relationship a little more with each mile.

All I can say is, she’d better watch her back. I may have lost the first couple rounds, but I’m not going down without a fight.

Thursday, September 18

11:20 a.m.

Dear Marla,

Warning: we’ve entered the epicenter of Coop-and-Dannikaland. This is ground zero for college memories, which most likely include the pornographic trysts of their late teens and early twenties, when their flesh was no doubt even more supple and alluring than it is now.

Oh God, I think I’m going to be sick.

Our stop? Santa Barbara, where even the meter maids look like Pilates instructors.

Thursday, September 18

12:45 p.m.

Dear, dear Marla,

Psychotic jealousy, be gone. Coop’s just filled me in on the Tragic Tale of Dannika’s Past, which makes it completely unnecessary to continue fantasizing about gouging her eyes out with my kitten heels. Seriously. Our entire trip (not to mention our relationship) has been saved!

Here’s how it went down.

We stopped at the beach in Santa Barbara. It was this secret little tucked-away point break they used to surf all the time in college. I always wondered if anyone at UCSB actually studied; from the sound of it, the answer is not much. I still couldn’t hear more than a few random exchanges from the backseat, but once we got off the freeway, I could tell they were reliving a long string of surfing memories from the good ole days.

I thought we were just stopping to stretch our legs and take in the vista. I really wasn’t dressed for a romp on the beach—you know how I hate getting sand in my shoes. The engine hadn’t even sputtered into silence, though, before Dannika was leaping out of the car and shaking out the golden flag of her hair in the cool ocean breeze.

“God, it’s so beautiful! I’m not even going to wear a wet suit. I want to feel the water.” Her eyes were shining as she watched a big wave curve in on itself, crash explosively, then unfurl a long carpet of foam.

For a second, the three of us stared out at the water. Coop turned to smile at me. “How you doing back there, kitten?”

It was nice hearing him use my pet name. His hand reached back and squeezed my knee and the warmth of his fingers on my skin sent cool shivers up my thigh.

“I’m okay.” At that very moment, it wasn’t a lie. “You?”

Before he could answer, Dannika surprised us both by yanking her shirt up over her head and conversation became suddenly impossible. There she was, standing not three feet from us, pulling her tank top off like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her pale breasts, once freed from the tight-fitting tank, were fuller and more buoyant than I would have thought possible on such a skinny girl. Her brown belly was shockingly flat—a stretch of smooth interrupted only by the subtle indentations of her six-pack abs. It was one thing to be a size two, but to be that well-defined was something else—the mark of the physically elite.

My root juice threatened to resurface. I swallowed hard and fought it back down.

Of course I looked away, embarrassed. So did Coop, but not before I caught his eyes lingering just a second too long. When he looked at me again, he was blushing.

I’ve never seen Coop blush.

“Last one in’s a rotten egg!” In a matter of minutes, Dannika had her turquoise bikini on, and she was running down to the water with her surfboard under her arm. It was a disgustingly Blue Crush moment.

Coop and I didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then we both tried to speak at once. I said, “Aren’t you getting in?” and he said, “Beautiful day,” and then we both looked at our laps, the awkwardness between us so obvious, it made it even more awkward.

“Come on,” he said finally, opening the door, getting out and pushing the seat forward to let me out. “I want to show you something.”

It was difficult navigating the steep, rocky path down to the beach in my kitten heels, but Coop’s arm was right there whenever I needed something to balance against. For the first time in my life, I could see the appeal of sneakers or even those hideous river sandals that were the plague of the ’90s—Tevas or Geckos or whatever you call them. When we got down to the beach I took my shoes off and the sand against my bare feet was silky-warm.

“We used to come here a lot.” Coop’s dark hair was windblown already from the car ride, and now the ocean breeze played with it gently, swishing a few strands in and out of his face.

“You and Dannika?” I tried not to pucker my lips in distaste when I said her name.

He squinted against the sun. It was bright out and the sky was that rich, lucid September blue, marred only by a couple of patches of pinkish fog hovering near the horizon.

“Yeah,” he said. “Phil and Joni, too—this was kind of our spot.”

“The friends we’re going to see?”

“Yeah. I think you’ll like them. They’re really cool.”

I just nodded.

Dannika was doing a series of yoga stretches just outside the reach of the surf. We both looked at her, our eyes drawn by the elegant lines her body made as she arched and folded, performing a slow dancelike sequence, her blue bikini striking against the dark velvet of wet sand. We were the only ones on the beach besides a couple of seals bobbing out in the water and a flock of pelicans swooping low, teasing the foamy edges of the waves with their long, graceful wings.

“She’s a little high-strung today,” Coop said.

“Dannika?”

He nodded.

“She seems pretty relaxed to me.” I tried to make it sound offhand, like I really hadn’t given it much thought.

“She, um…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “She tries to give the impression that she’s confident—even cocky—but the truth is, she’s pretty insecure.”

I kind of snorted at that. I couldn’t help it. If he wanted to make me feel sorry for her, it was going to be a hard sell.

“No, I know, it sounds crazy. People figure she’s got everything—successful career, amazing La Jolla beach house—”

“Perfect body,” I added bitterly.

“Exactly,” he said, agreeing a little too readily for my taste. “The whole package.”

We heard her whooping with excitement and turned to see her paddling for a pretty enormous wave. Her arms churned hard against the water and she rose up over the mountain of blue just before it broke, disappearing over the lip.

“The thing is,” he said, “I knew her when she was just a damaged kid.”

We stopped walking and stood still for a moment, facing the water. Dannika was paddling farther out, now, working hard to get beyond the breakers, where the ocean got smooth and glassy.

“What do you mean, damaged?” I asked.

“Hold on,” he said. “I’ll explain in a sec. First I want to show you something.” He took my hand and led me down the beach a little ways. Feeling his big, warm fingers closed over mine reminded me of being a child, walking with my father, feeling safe and enclosed.

We paused when we came to a cliff that jutted clear down to the edge of the water. The waves were crashing against the slick, barnacle-encrusted point. Small pebbles popped and sizzled as the receding tide dragged them backward.

When the wave had receded completely, Coop cried, “Go now!” and pushed me forward. Without thinking, I dashed across the rocky sand, past the sharp apex of the cliff, and then the next wave was sweeping up toward me, roaring like a wild animal. But Coop had timed it perfectly and I managed to curve around the point, then run away from the water so that it only licked at my toes, the spray misting the hem of my skirt. I laughed like a little kid.

Coop appeared a few seconds later, his jeans rolled up, but his wave was bigger and he didn’t quite manage to escape it. He looked so cute running hard up the beach toward me, the foam surging around his ankles, getting his cuffs wet. If I could just look at him the rest of my life, I’d be happy, I told myself. Before I could let the impact of that thought sink in, he ran right for me and hugged me so hard that my toes dangled in the air. He kissed me; we were both giggling and I could feel the vibration of our laughter in his lips.

“Here.” He put me down and led me farther away from the water. Scanning the beach with his eyes, he said, “There it is. God, I haven’t been here in years.”

We were in a little cove, surrounded by a half circle of bluffs about thirty feet high. There, at the deepest part of the crescent-shaped beach, the sheer cliffs gave way to a small, dark cave. As we got closer I could smell the damp, slightly rotten odor of seaweed decomposing in the salty air. I hesitated at the edge where the sunlight turned abruptly into a cool envelope of shade, but Coop tugged at my hand again and soon we were sitting together in the shadows.

“I used to come here all the time,” he said.

“By yourself?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “Or with friends.”

“With Dannika?” It came out all whispery and sort of scared. I couldn’t look at him.

He was studying my profile; I could feel his eyes on my face. “Yeah, or Phil and Joni.” He touched my hair. “It’s the pirates’ hideout. Top secret.”

“I’m not much of a pirate,” I admitted. “I get seasick. You sure I’m allowed to be here?”

“You underestimate yourself.”

We sat there for a while, watching the waves crash against the sand. We couldn’t see Dannika from in there, and I was glad.

“I just really love how it feels in here, you know? Like a secret fort.”

“Yeah.” It seemed kind of dank and smelly to me, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to say so.

Coop took out his pipe and lit it. Did I ever mention how much I love his pipe? I mean I know smoking’s a despicable habit, and I should hate everything about it, but when he smokes that pipe it just pushes every anachronistic, sentimental button I’ve got—and you know I’ve got a lot of those. I mean, how many guys under the age of eighty smoke one of these babies? Every time he lights it, I feel like we’re in an Ingmar Bergman film.

“Dannika’s not what she seems to be,” he said. I snuck a quick glance at him; he was squinting at the horizon, a serious look on his face. He puffed on the pipe a few more times to get it going. “When I met her freshman year she was skinny and awkward and painfully shy. Her teeth were all crooked back then and she was always holding a hand up over her mouth when she laughed or ate.”

“You mean she wasn’t always so…beautiful?”

He shook his head and took another drag from his pipe, blowing the smoke away from me. It smelled like chocolate. “She had a really messed up childhood. I won’t go into the details—she’d hate me if I did—but when her dad died he left her some money and she spent it all on her looks. She got braces and a boob job. It’s like she went away one summer and she came back a totally different girl. She even changed her name.”

“Really? What was she called before?”

He tried not to smile. “Donna Horney.”

I winced. “Yikes. No wonder.”

He nodded. “She totally transformed herself—I mean, top to bottom. Now she pretends none of it ever happened. According to her, Donna’s dead. End of story.” He reached down and grabbed a handful of sand, let it pour out of his fist like a grey waterfall. “People meet her and assume she’s Miss Enlightened, but the truth is, she’s still Donna Horney inside.”

I had to fight a huge giggle. I wanted to leap into the air and do a dance in the sand, but I sat there perfectly still. Dannika Winters was a phony! I knew at least some part of me should feel sorry for her, but all my body produced was a giddy surge of relief. My nemesis was a total fake. She couldn’t possibly harm me. I was real; she was just smoke and mirrors.

Coop turned to me and this time I couldn’t avoid his eyes. “What are you thinking?” His brow was furrowed.

“Um…” I hesitated. It hardly seemed fitting to blurt out Ding-dong the witch is dead! “I’m just surprised, I guess. That’s really sad.” I could feel a huge, satisfied grin threatening to spread across my face, but I covered it in time with a concerned frown.

“I’m telling you because I know from past experience that she can be really…” he searched for the right word “…intimidating.”

“Sure. I can see that.”

“But she’s super private, okay, so don’t mention any of this. I mean Phil and Joni know, of course, but we’re the only ones. She’d seriously kill me if she knew I’d told you.”

I zipped my lips with my fingers. “Mum’s the word.” I squeezed his hand. “Thanks for trusting me. I’ve been kind of nervous about meeting your friends. It helps that I’m not completely in the dark.”

He set his pipe down on a rock, leaned over and kissed me. He tasted of salt and smoke—the sweetest flavor in the world.

I guess you probably don’t need the gory details of every minute we spent in that cave. All I know is, most the buttons on my suit were undone and even when the fog started reaching toward the beach with long white fingers, I didn’t feel the slightest bit cold. God, Marla, he’s such a crazy-good kisser. I swear I could live on nothing but the taste of his mouth.

We were pretty caught up in the moment when I heard someone saying, “Oops, sorry.”

I looked up and Dannika was walking away from us, her perfect little butt still swathed in nothing but a bikini.

Coop gave me a sheepish look as we both made the necessary adjustments to our clothing. When we were presentable again he kissed me one last time, tapped out his pipe, and we followed Dannika back down the beach toward the car. The tide was going out, I guess, because it was easier getting around the point this time. We waited until Dannika was dressed and sitting in the driver’s seat of the Mercury before Coop gave me a piggyback ride up the path.

“I can’t believe you didn’t come out there,” she told Coop as we climbed back into the car. There was a pouty note to her voice. Looking at her profile, I thought I could see the ghost of the gangly girl she’d once been. “It was like double overhead, dude.”

“Did you have fun?” He tousled her wet hair affectionately and it didn’t even bother me at all.

“It was a blast.” She definitely didn’t sound happy. “You totally missed out.”

He shrugged. “I was busy.”

I couldn’t help giggling a little, and Dannika shot me a look over her shoulder. “Whatever.” She jabbed the key into the ignition violently and the car roared to life. “Your loss.”

She drives even worse when she’s pissed.

Every ten miles or so I have to clench my jaw and cling to my seat belt as she passes another RV on a blind curve. To add to my discomfort, her surfboard’s dripping little salt water drops onto my shoulder and the fog is making me shiver. All the same, I’m smiling as I write this.

I’m pretty sure I won’t need this notebook anymore. Coop’s provided me with an infallible cure to my jealousy. From now on I’ll be the picture of sisterly sweetness. If I feel myself slipping, all I need are those two magic words: Donna Horney.

Anyway, thanks for suggesting I write all this down. If I hadn’t, who knows how this trip would have turned out? You could be reading about me in the papers: Jackie O Strangles Yoga Diva. Now I can safely say my petty insecurities are behind me.

Hugs and Kisses from a New and Improved Gwen

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