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Chapters (58)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for Abbi Waxman and her novels
  3. Berkley Titles by Abbi Waxman
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Summer
  7. ONE
  8. TWO
  9. THREE
  10. FOUR
  11. FIVE
  12. SIX
  13. SEVEN
  14. EIGHT
  15. NINE
  16. TEN
  17. ELEVEN
  18. TWELVE
  19. THIRTEEN
  20. FOURTEEN
  21. FIFTEEN
  22. SIXTEEN
  23. SEVENTEEN
  24. EIGHTEEN
  25. NINETEEN
  26. TWENTY
  27. TWENTY-ONE
  28. TWENTY-TWO
  29. TWENTY-THREE
  30. TWENTY-FOUR
  31. TWENTY-FIVE
  32. TWENTY-SIX
  33. TWENTY-SEVEN
  34. TWENTY-EIGHT
  35. TWENTY-NINE
  36. THIRTY
  37. THIRTY-ONE
  38. THIRTY-TWO
  39. THIRTY-THREE
  40. THIRTY-FOUR
  41. THIRTY-FIVE
  42. THIRTY-SIX
  43. THIRTY-SEVEN
  44. Fall
  45. THIRTY-EIGHT
  46. THIRTY-NINE
  47. FORTY
  48. FORTY-ONE
  49. FORTY-TWO
  50. FORTY-THREE
  51. FORTY-FOUR
  52. FORTY-FIVE
  53. EPILOGUE
  54. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  55. Readers Guide
  56. Questions for Discussion
  57. About the Author
  58. What’s next onyour reading list?

Other clothes: four pairs of leggings, four T-shirts, four pairs of socks, two zip-up hoodies, two pairs of running shorts, one extra pair of running shoes, one pair of flip-flops, one pair of flat black slip-ons.

Sheets: flannel (this caused discord, as Polly failed to persuade her LA was too warm for flannel sheets, and Laura told her hell wouldn’t be too warm for flannel sheets, and they discovered a fundamental disagreement about fabric in general that—fortunately—they were able to move beyond).

POLLY:

Lamp in the shape of a dinosaur, tights with pineapples, gold scissors with stork handles, tampons, new coloring pencils, a packet of orange Milanos, and an adorable little tin of safety pins she would distinctly remember buying and never be able to find when she needed them.

FOUR

The next morning Laura returned from her morning run to a quiet house. She looked at her phone—it was nearly 9:00 a.m.; everyone must have left for work. She hadn’t slept that well in weeks, and the run had felt really, really good. She went into her room and levered off her shoes, telling herself she was supposed to undo them first, and not doing so. Padding into the kitchen, she found a note propped up on the counter:

Dear Laura,

Coffee in the pot since 7, feel free to make more. Tea in the cupboard, cereal ditto. Animals have all been fed, don’t listen to their lies.

Maggie

Laura looked down. The gray cat had arrived and curled his tail around his feet with the elegant precision of an Englishman furling an umbrella. Herbert the dog was behind him, his tail waving hopefully. Behind them, a sedate distance away, was a small ottoman in the shape of a pug. Her tail wasn’t moving, and she fixed Laura with a boggling eye that said she’d resigned herself to the shortcomings of the human race and didn’t expect this tall drink of water to buck the trend. Laura wondered where she’d been the evening before. At work? On a date?

All their liquid-eyed gazing was useless; Laura was not going to be the person who snuck food to the pets, no, ma’am. As a child she’d been terrorized by a tuxedo cat named Rollo who would wake her at 5:00 a.m. every day by placing a soft white paw on her eyelid and leaning on it. It’s a surprisingly effective alarm. She remembered crying and pulling the sheet over her head, but he was merciless. He would put his tiny triangle nose next to her ear and purr like a Lamborghini until she got up to feed him. Laura wasn’t going to let this happen again; when the gray cat—Oliver?—twirled around her legs and squeezed his green eyes up at her, she only petted him for a few minutes before ignoring him completely.