Chapters (55)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Acknowledgments
- Cast of Characters
- Part One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Part Two
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Forty-five
- Forty-six
- A note on the Author
I guess I didn’t notice it for a few days because she has that shiny hair and a lot of truth bounces off it. I kept asking if I could touch it. Sometimes I wouldn’t even ask. I’d just reach out and pet her hair when she was on the phone or lighting a cigarette. I thought that the shininess might travel through my fingers, up my arm, and into my own head. And from my head down into my heart.
Hair comes out of your head so I do believe it is a reflection of what’s inside. People with curly hair have curly thoughts and that’s why it grows that way. But it is possible to double-cross your own hair follicles, Double Indemnity—style, until they believe themselves to be a reflection of what’s inside. You can make it so. I looked through Rachel’s photo albums and this woman has had the exact same hair since she was a kid. Never had bangs, never had a chin-length bob, never had a disaster with a home-perming kit, and never had it cut into a shag. Although I think Rachel is a very attractive woman, she is nowhere near as fabulous as Madonna and me. But I think she knows herself better. How can you be lonely if you truly know yourself?
Well, understanding is a lonesome place to be. When you know something about yourself and still don’t act on it, you can get pretty sad. I’m lucky. I don’t know myself at all. Every time I screw up, it isn’t really my fault. Not really. Rachel tries so hard to be a good person. Sometimes she falls short. And those sometimes wrap around her throat like a chiffon scarf in a sports-car door.
I thought it was hilarious that she had a statue of Buddha by her bed. It was such bullshit; I had to call her on it. “Does Buddha tell you to do an hour on the Stairmaster every morning?”
She’d do her hour, take a shower and make herself a smoothie. Then she’d talk nonsense to Buddha. Then she’d lie on her bed and smoke, as if she and Buddha had just had hot sex. The cigarettes. The Buddhist shrine. The Stairmaster. The hours spent straightening her hair with a blow-dryer. If that doesn’t spell lonely I don’t know what does.