Dirty Rowdy Thing
4.5/5
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About this ebook
Despite their rowdy hookups, Harlow and Finn don’t even like each other...which would explain why their marriage lasted only twelve hours. He needs to be in charge and takes whatever he wants. She lives by the Want-something-done? Do-it-yourself mantra. Maybe she’s too similar to the rugged fisherman—or just what he needs.
Christina Lauren
Christina Lauren is the combined pen name of longtime writing partners and best friends Christina Hobbs and Lauren Billings, the New York Times, USA TODAY, and #1 internationally bestselling authors of the Beautiful and Wild Seasons series, Autoboyography, Love and Other Words, Roomies, Josh and Hazel’s Guide to Not Dating, The Unhoneymooners, The Soulmate Equation, Something Wilder, The True Love Experiment and The Paradise Problem. You can find them online at ChristinaLaurenBooks.com or @ChristinaLauren on Instagram.
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Reviews for Dirty Rowdy Thing
271 ratings18 reviews
What our readers think
Readers find this title to be a great read with interesting and sexy characters. The connection between the characters is loved, and the book evokes emotions, making readers feel teary-eyed. It also inspires readers to reflect on their friendships and strive to be better friends. Overall, this title is enjoyable and engaging.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Another really good story in the Wild Seasons series. This one wasn't quite as good as Sweet Filthy Boy, but almost. The characters seemed realistic and the problems they had were definitely tough to deal with, but this one just didn't pull the heartstrings as much as the first one. Once again, I read this book in one sitting. It was definitely gripping and well written. I can't wait for Dark Wild Night in September.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Man, this was so incredibly hot. The tension, the dialogues, the connection between Finn and Harlow was what made this book flammable. Sweet and, sometimes, maddeningly stubborn, this story completely swept me off of my feet.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Awesome way to end the story. I think Finn and Harlow are now my favorite.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5how can you not love these characters and want to be a little ok a lot like them... they make me want to take another look at my friendship and squeeze them across the table and tell them just how amazing they are and how glad I am to have them in my life...and I really hope I can be a better friend, loyal, honest, loving and forgiving and there... and to really see them as they are and love them completely...
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Good read lots of detail and the characters are interesting and sexy.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The favourite are the parts without sex scenes.
I presume that everyone liking to read them will give this book 5 stars.
And I prefer books with more depths :) - Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Fun read, with room for feeling teary eyed here and there.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Another really good story in the Wild Seasons series. This one wasn't quite as good as Sweet Filthy Boy, but almost. The characters seemed realistic and the problems they had were definitely tough to deal with, but this one just didn't pull the heartstrings as much as the first one. Once again, I read this book in one sitting. It was definitely gripping and well written. I can't wait for Dark Wild Night in September.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Waited for this to go on sale. So glad I bought it. Funny and sexy.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The sex is realllly sexy. (It may deserve more "L's" than that.) Other than that these people have nothing at all in common and are not very interesting as individuals. That goes for the friend group too
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Ugh I want a Finn lol. This was a great read. I loved the connection between these two characters.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Second in the Wild Seasons series, this goes back to Christina Lauren's form of alternating male and female POVs. The story features a L.A. woman from the Hollywood crowd, and a Canadian fisherman (they were introduced in 'Sweety Filthy Boy'); Explicit sex featuring a little bit of bondage
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Enormous love! I want to crawl into this series and live. Auto buy! Can't wait for more!
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5LOVE the chemistry between Finn Roberts (adding him to my list of best fictional crushes ever) and Harlow Vega. It was fun seeing their relationship unfold - they're perfect for each other - and they dealt with hurt, anger, and problems in a real way. None of this overblown shit that happens in a lot of romance books. Be warned: this is a HOT read ;)
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Dirty Rowdy Thing - Weil ich dich will ist das zweite Buch in der Wild Seasons Serie des Autorenteams Christina Lauren. Man kann die Bücher gut einzeln lesen, da jedes von einem bestimmten Paar handelt und es kein Cliffhanger-Ende gibt. In diesem Buch geht es um Harlow und Finn, die sich gelegentlich ganz locker zum Sex treffen. Diese Abmachung passt ihnen ganz gut, denn sie brauchen eine unkomplizierte Ablenkung, da sich beide um Ereignisse Sorgen machen, die ihre Familien betreffen. Außerdem haben sie sonst auch nichts gemeinsam. Während Finn ein äußerst hartarbeitender Fischer in Kanada ist, verbringt die gutsituierte Harlow 12 Stunden in der Woche als Praktikantin bei einem amerikanischen Fernsehsender.Das erste Buch in der Serie, Sweet Filthy Boy - Weil du mir gehörst, war eher süss und herzzerreißend, während es hier weitaus heißer zuging was die Erotik betraf.Ich fand es gut, dass sich hier mehr auf die Familiensituation der beiden Protagonisten konzentriert wurde. Aber natürlich gab es dennoch genügend lustige Beiträge von Harlows und Finns Freunden, und es war toll, Mia und Ansel wiederzutreffen, aber auch einen neuen Charakter, Not-Joe, kennenzulernen. Not-Joe war urkomisch.Natürlich gab es im letzten Drittel ein bißchen Drama und Streit, aber das wurde recht zügig aufgelöst. Insgesamt, eine leicht zu lesende, unterhaltsame und sexy Geschichte mit tollen Charakteren, über die ich gerne noch mehr lesen möchte.Dies ist das erste Buch von Christina Lauren, das ich nicht auf Englisch gelesen habe, und ich muss sagen, Tilly Johanson hat eine fantastische Übersetzung abgeliefert, in der sie den lockeren Stil und den herrlichen Humor der beiden Autorinnen ganz toll getroffen hat. Ich freue mich auf den dritten Band.
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- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5This is Finn and Harlow's story all the way. Both are struggling with life changing situations. Finn shares his but Harlow does not. When he finds out it may be the end for them. This started slowly but picked up when the two of them realize the other is more than a distraction, an itch to be scratched. Watching their reactions when they realize the significance of the other to their life is fun. Finn does not replace Ansel as my book boyfriend but he gives him a good run for it. I like the friendship between the guys and the girls. I also like the support system they have created. I look forward to Oliver and Lola's story. These characters are old friends and I like catching up with them.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/54.5 Funny Banter & Sexy Fun Stars! Harlow & Finn get their story in Dirty Rowdy Thing, and it had me in stitches! After reading, and thoroughly loving Sweet Filthy Boy, I jumped at the chance to review this second book in the Wild Seasons series. Not only do we get more of Ansel and Mia, as well as the whole Las Vegas gang, but we also get a love story with a totally different flavor. Whereas Ansel's and Mia's story was an example of love at first site, Harlow and Finn start their story with a divorce (following a quickie Las Vegas marriage of course!). I loved the whole hot, blue-collar fisherman tries a casual, dirty fling with the Hollywood princess, and end up with way more than they bargained for angle! I also admire the Christina Lauren duo writing team for inserting the very real and difficult issue of breast cancer into their story. We often forget that breast cancer affects the entire family, not just the victim, and Dirty Rowdy Thing thoughtfully brings this sensitive issue to the forefront.Dirty Rowdy Thing commences where Sweet Filthy Boy leaves off. Harlow is back in California, and Finn in Canada. Harlow, the daughter of a famous Hollywood actress and Hollywood big wig, is leading a somewhat carefree life working 12 hours a week as an intern for a studio, and going from man to man having fun without ever really getting serious about any one guy. Finn, on the other hand, along with his brothers, is pretty much at the other end of the spectrum, as he has for years, since his father took ill, been running, along with his brothers, the family fishing business, and has only had a handful of relationships. Although they have had at least one rendezvous since their inauspicious beginning in Las Vegas, given their totally different lives, it's no surprise that while each is incredibly attracted to the other, neither expects more than a little wild, frisky fun when their paths do cross (which is bound to happen occasionally given their Mia/Ansel link). Then circumstances in both their lives take a rather quick deteriorating turn and, at equally vulnerable points in their lives, they find rather unexpectedly that their feelings for one another are starting to change. But given their two completely different natures, could there possibly be a HEA in store for this couple? Equal parts funny and incredibly sexy, I thoroughly enjoyed Dirty Rowdy Thing. Like Sweet Filthy Boy, the Christina Lauren team finds some rather creative ways to amp up the heat level of this read by throwing in some creative kink along with the incredibly, lascivious dirty talk. Moreover, I enjoyed the joining of this rather unconventional couple and how they seemed to bring out the best in each other.I can't wait for the next book in the Wild Seasons series, Dark Wild Night, which will detail Lola's and Oliver's story and is scheduled to be released in September 2015! Source: ARC received in exchange for an honest review.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Let's face it, I always seem to fall in love with their books for two reasons; one, they know how to make some pretty awesome characters, and two because their writing can really bring the characters to life. So with the combination of impeccable writing and characters, it's no wonder I was completely enamored with this book. Harlow has so many great qualities that you wished she was your best friend, or better yet, your sister. She puts family first and makes no apologies for that. She is also quite witty and sarcastic which always make up some of my most favorite characters. She is also very loyal to her friends which you don't always get from people and characters nowadays. On the outside she may be very strong and put together, but on the inside she is tender and just wants love, like most people. Finn is much like Harlow in many ways. For example, he also puts family first, is proud, sarcastic, and funny. Many times, in books it seems, opposites seem to attract, but Finn and Harlow are rather very much the same. So that causes different kinds of rifts between them. And just kinda proves that not all couples have to be composed of two completely different people.In Sweet Filthy Boy, Mia was with Ansel in France most of the time, so we hardly got to know all their friends sober and in their element. So I loved how very present all of the friends were in this book. It's nice revisiting old characters and learning more about the ones we hardly knew. I must say that I feel rather spoiled because we got Sweet Filthy Boy earlier this year, and now we got this one. Now I am a bit crushed that we have to wait almost a year for the next one. But we will get more from the Beautiful Bastard series, and I can't wait to find out which character from this series will appear in that one! (I think it may be Ansel, but I can't wait to find out for sure.)
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Book preview
Dirty Rowdy Thing - Christina Lauren
Chapter ONE
Harlow
I BURST THROUGH THE doors of this random Starbucks in this random neighborhood in the hopes of forgetting the second-worst lay of my life. Toby Amsler: Fantastically flirty, hot, and with the added bonus of being on the UCSD water polo team—he had all the makings for a night of world-class, toe-curling fun.
False advertising at its finest.
You see, when it comes to potential love interests, guys typically fall into three basic categories: the manwhore, the misunderstood, and the mama’s boy. The manwhore, in my experience, comes in any number of shapes and sizes: dirty rock star, muscled quarterback, even the occasional irresistible hot nerd. Their strength in bed? Generally, dirty talk and endurance, both of which I’m a fan. Sadly, this doesn’t always translate into skill.
The misunderstood often takes the shape of an artist, a quiet surfer, or a soulful musician. These boys rarely know what the hell to do, but at least they’re willing to try for hours.
The mama’s boy is the easiest to spot. Here in La Jolla, he usually drives his mom’s hand-me-down Lexus and keeps it in pristine condition. This type takes his shoes off as soon as he walks indoors and always maintains eye contact while speaking. In bed, the mama’s boy offers few benefits, but at least they tend to be tidy.
Toby Amsler turned out to be the rare combination of mama’s boy and manwhore, which somehow made him exponentially worse in bed. The only thing more awkward than his vacuum-suction oral skills was being woken by his mother bringing him tea and Cheerios—without knocking—at six in the morning. Not my finest wake-up call.
I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Despite what film and music would have women believe, these guys are all hopeless when it comes to the female orgasm. They learn sex from watching porn, where giving the camera a good view is the goal and no one really cares if it works for the girl, because she’ll pretend it’s awesome regardless. Sex happens up close, and inside, not at camera’s length. Guys seem to forget that.
My heart rate has yet to return to normal, and the couple in front of me is ordering at a snail’s pace. He wants to know, What’s good for someone who doesn’t like coffee?
Probably not a coffee shop, I want to snap. But I don’t, and remind myself that it’s not this particular man’s fault that all men are clueless, that I’m frustrated and cranky.
I swear I’m not usually prone to dramatics. I’m just having a bad morning, and I need to breathe.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. There. Better.
I step away and scowl at the pastry case while contemplating my choices. And then I stop, blinking twice before narrowing my eyes and peering more closely at the case. Or, rather, at the reflection in the glass.
Is that… no… Finn Roberts … standing behind me?
Leaning forward, I can see that visible beside my own reflection, and in line just behind me is, indeed… Finn. My brain does the immediate mental pat-down. Why isn’t he in Canada? Where am I? Am I awake? Am I having a Finn Roberts nightmare in Toby Amsler’s twin-sized water bed?
I convince myself it’s a trick of the light. Maybe my brain has finally shorted out on the one morning I’d give my left arm for an orgasm—of course that would make me think of Finn, right?
Finn Roberts, the only guy who ever managed to dodge my convenient guy-category strategy—Finn Roberts, the notorious ex-husband-of-twelve-drunken-hours-in-Vegas, who was good with hands, lips, and body, and who made me come so many times he told me he thought I passed out.
Finn Roberts, who turned out to be an asshole, too.
Trick of the light. It can’t be him.
But when I chance a tiny glimpse over my shoulder, I realize it really is him. On his head is a faded blue Mariners cap pulled low over hazel eyes lined with the longest, thickest lashes I’ve ever seen. He’s wearing the same hunter green T-shirt with his family company’s white fishing logo as when I surprised him in his hometown only a little over a month ago. His arms are tanned, muscled, and crossed over his wide chest.
Finn is here. Fuck. Finn is here.
I close my eyes and groan. My body gives in to a horrifying reflex: Immediately, I feel soft and warm, my spine arches as if he’s pressing up behind me. I remember the first moment I knew we would hook up, in Vegas. Drunk, I’d pointed to him and dropped out loud to everyone, Probably gonna fuck him tonight.
To which he’d leaned over and said directly into my ear, That’s sweet. But I like to be the one doing the fucking.
And I know if I heard his voice right now—deep, calm as still water, and a little gravelly by nature—as keyed up as I am, I’d probably have an orgasm in the middle of this coffee shop.
I knew I should have just waited and driven over to Pannikin for my usual morning fix. I stay silent, counting to ten. One of my best friends, Mia, jokes that I’m only quiet if I’m surprised or pissed. Right now, I’m both.
The skinny barista kid catches my eye by leaning forward. Would you like to try our pumpkin spice mocha?
I nod blankly.
Wait, what? No, that sounds disgusting! A tiny, still-functioning corner of my brain yells at my mouth to order my usual: large coffee, black, no room. But I’m frozen in my stunned silence while the Starbucks barista squeaks out my order with a black Sharpie. In a daze, I hand over the money and shove my wallet back into my purse.
I steady myself and when I turn to go wait for my coffee, Finn catches my eye and smiles. Hey, Ginger Snap.
Without turning to face him, I make a show of studying him over my shoulder. He hasn’t shaved this morning, and his dark stubble cuts a dangerous shadow on his jaw. His neck is deeply tanned from working on the wide-open ocean all summer. I let my eyes travel lower, because—let’s be real—I’d be a fool to not drink in the sight of this man before telling him to go fuck himself.
Finn is built like one of Lola’s comic book superheroes—all broad chest and narrow waist, thick forearms, muscled legs. He gives off the appearance of impenetrability, as if that golden skin of his covers titanium. I mean, sweet Jesus, the man works with his hands, sweats when he works, fucks like it’s his vocation, and was raised by a father who expects, above anything else, that his sons are capable fishermen. I can’t imagine any of the guys I know standing next to him and looking anything other than snack-sized.
His smile slowly straightens and he tilts his head a little. Harlow?
Although the shadow of his hat partially hides his eyes, I can tell they widen slightly when I lift my attention from his neck. And now I remember how his gaze feels like a hook. I close my eyes and shake my head once, trying to clear it. I don’t mind swooning if the situation calls for it, but I hate the feeling when it tries to shove aside my very well-deserved, righteous indignation.
Hold. I’m contemplating my response.
His brows pull together in confusion… at least I think it’s confusion. I suspect on Finn that emotion looks the same as impatience, frustration, and concentration. He’s not exactly an open book. Okay…?
Okay, here’s the problem: After our matrimonial adventures in Vegas, I flew up to see him. I showed up on Vancouver Island of all places, wearing nothing but a coat. Surprise! We had sex for nearly ten hours straight—rowdy sex, loud, on-every-flat-surface sex—and when I told him I had to head to the airport, he just smiled, leaned over to slide his phone off the nightstand, and called me a cab. He’d just come all over my tits, and he called a cab to drive me to the airport. In fact, it pulled up at the curb behind Finn’s brand-new, cherry-red Ford F-150.
I’d concluded, calmly, actually, that we weren’t a good fit, even for the occasional border-crossing booty call, and called it a day.
So why am I so angry he’s here?
The barista offers the same drink special to Finn, but he makes a mildly disgusted face before declining and ordering two large, black coffees.
This makes me even more irritated. His reasonable reaction should have been mine. What the hell are you doing at my coffee shop?
His eyes go wide, mouth forming a few different words before any actually come out. "You own this place?"
"Are you high, Finn? It’s a Starbucks. I just mean it’s my town."
His eyes fall closed and he laughs, and the way the light catches the angle of his jaw, and the way I know exactly how that stubble would feel on my skin… argh.
I tilt my head, staring at him. What’s funny?
"It was a real possibility in my mind that you could own this Starbucks."
With a little eye-roll, I reach for my drink and march out of the store.
Walking to my car, I stretch my neck, roll my shoulders. Why am I so annoyed?
It isn’t like I expected a carriage to be at my disposal when I showed up unannounced at his little seaside house. I’d already slept with him in Vegas, so I knew the no-strings-attached arrangement. Clearly I was there because I wanted good sex. Actually, I wanted—no, I needed—confirmation that the sex was as good as I’d remembered.
It was so much better.
So obviously it’s the bad-Toby-Amsler-sex hangover that’s killing my calm. This chance meeting with Finn would have gone very differently if I hadn’t just left the bed of the first guy I slept with after him—the first guy I’d been with in two months—and if that experience hadn’t been so unsatisfying.
Footsteps slap the asphalt behind me and I start to turn just before a powerful hand curls around my bicep. Finn grabs me harder than I think he’s intended, and the result is that my pumpkin coffee monstrosity tilts and spills onto the ground, barely missing my shoes.
I give him an exasperated look and toss my empty cup into a trash can near the curb.
Oh, come on,
he says with a little smile. He hands me the one cup he had balancing on top of the other. It’s not as if you were going to drink that. You wouldn’t touch the instant vanilla spice stuff I had at my place.
Taking the coffee he’s offering, I mumble my thanks and look to the side. I’m acting exactly like the kind of woman I never want to be: jilted, martyred, put out.
Why are you pissed?
he asks quietly.
I’m just preoccupied.
Ignoring this, he says, Is it because you came all the way up to Vancouver Island, showed up at my house wearing only a trench coat in the middle of July, and I banged you hoarse?
The smirk in his voice tells me he thinks I couldn’t possibly be pissed about that.
He’d be right.
I pause, looking up to study him for a beat. "You mean the day you couldn’t even be bothered to put on some clothes to take me to the airport?"
He blinks, his head jerking back slightly. "I skipped an entire shift when you showed up. I never do that. I left for work about a minute after the cab showed."
This… is new information. I shift on my feet, unable to maintain eye contact anymore, instead looking past him to the busy street in the distance. You didn’t tell me you had to work.
I did.
I feel my jaw tighten with irritation when I blink back up to his face. Did not.
He sighs, pulling his cap off, scratching his crazy bed-head and then putting it back on. All right, Harlow.
What are you doing here, anyway?
I ask him.
And then it clicks into place: Ansel is in town visiting Mia, and we’re all headed to the grand opening of Oliver’s comic book store, Downtown Graffick, tomorrow. Canadian Finn, Parisian Ansel, and the dry-witted Aussie Oliver: the bridegrooms of Vegas. Although four of us got quick annulments after our wedding shenanigans, Mia and Ansel decided to make a real go at this marriage thing. Lola and Oliver have become friends, bonding over their shared comic and graphic novel love. So, whether we like it or not, Finn and I are expected to be a part of this band of misfit buddies. We have to learn to be civil, with our clothes on.
Right,
I mumble. The opening is this weekend. You’re here for that.
"I know they won’t be stocking Seventeen and Cosmo, but you should come by and check it out, anyway, he says.
The store looks good."
I lift the coffee cup to my nose and sniff. Black, unadulterated coffee. Perfect. "Of course I’ll be there. I like Oliver and Ansel."
He swipes a palm over his mouth, smiling a little. So. You’re pissed about the cab.
"I’m not pissed. This isn’t a lovers’ spat, and we aren’t having a quarrel. I’m just having a bad morning."
Narrowing his eyes, he looks me over, from head to toe. He’s so damn observant it makes me blush, and I know as soon as his smile reappears that he’s deduced I didn’t come from home. Your hair is all crazy, but what’s interesting is you look a little hard up. Like maybe you didn’t quite get what you needed somewhere.
Bite me.
Finn steps closer, head tilted slightly to the side with that infuriating half smile. Say please, and I will.
With a laugh, I push him away with my palm flat to his very nice, very hard chest. Go away.
Because now you want it?
Because you need a shower.
Listen,
he says, laughing. I won’t chase you down again if you go running away, but we’re going to see each other from time to time. Let’s try to be grown-ups.
He turns without waiting for my reply and I hear his truck alarm chirp as he unlocks the door. I make a bratty little fuck-you face and display my middle finger to his retreating form. But then I pause, my heart tripping over itself with an abrupt rush of adrenaline.
Finn is climbing in the same cherry-red truck that was parked at the curb in front of his house. Only now it’s covered in the dust and grime accumulated from miles and miles of driving.
Which begs the question, if he’s only visiting for the weekend, then why did he bring his truck all the way here from Vancouver Island?
I don’t have much time to ponder this because my phone buzzes in my pocket from my mom’s text and I pull it out only to see the words, Will you come to the house right away please, written across my screen.
I AM A fixer.
When I was four and broke my mother’s favorite necklace while trying it on, I spent three hours in my tree house trying to glue it back together. I succeeded only in gluing several fingers together. Senior year when Mia was hit by the truck and nearly paralyzed, I sat by her side every day for the entire summer she spent in a toe-to-waist cast. I knew that if I sat there long enough she would need something and I would be there, ready. I brought her DVDs and ridiculous teen magazines. I painted her nails and went so far as to smuggle the oddest things into her room—wine coolers; her boyfriend, Luke; her cat—just to see her smile. When Lola’s father was sent to Afghanistan—and then when he returned, shaken and different, and Lola’s mom abandoned them both for good—I brought groceries and dinners, anything that would take the tiniest burden off them. And when Ansel was too man-brained to fix things with Mia, I forced my way in there, too.
When my friends need something, I do it. When someone I love can’t solve a problem, I find a way. For better or worse, it’s what I do.
So when I pull into the drive and sit down beside my little sister and across from our parents in our light, airy, happy family room—a room that, right now, feels like a tomb—I’m immediately on high alert. On an average day, our family is boisterous. Right now, we are silent. I feel like I should whisper my hellos. The curtains are open, but the thick fog of the marine layer outside makes the room feel gloomy and dark.
My family is—and has always been—the center of my world. My mom was an actress when my parents got married, and Dad’s career didn’t take off until I hit high school. So when I was little, Dad and I would travel with Mom from one set to the next. Until my sister Bellamy was born when I was six, it was just the three of us most of the time.
Dad is the emotionally intuitive, nurturing one, all creative energy and passion. Mom is the beautiful, calm centering force in our family, leading the house with a wink behind my father’s broad shoulders. But right now she sits next to him, gripping his hand in both of hers, and I can see from across the low coffee table that she’s sweating.
I have it in my head that they’re going to tell us they’re selling the house. (I would picket in the driveway until they backed down.) That they’re moving to Los Angeles. (I will lose my shit.) That they’re having some trouble and are going to spend some time apart. (This I can’t even fathom.)
What’s going on?
I ask slowly.
Mom closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then looks right at us, saying, I have breast cancer.
After these four words, the hundreds that follow sound fuzzy and shapeless. But I understand enough to know that Mom has a tumor that is roughly three centimeters in her breast, and that cancerous cells were found in several lymph nodes. Dad found the mass while they were in the shower one morning—I’m too relieved he found it to be weirded out by this information—and she didn’t want to tell us anything until she knew more. She’s opted for a mastectomy, followed by chemotherapy, and they’ve scheduled surgery for Monday… three days from now.
It’s all somehow moving too fast, and, for a fixer like me, not fast enough. I can rattle off questions as if I’m reading from a book: Have you gotten a second opinion on the pathology? What is the recovery time for the surgery? How soon after can you start chemo? What medications will they give you? But I’m too stunned to know if my rapid-fire questions are an appropriate reaction at all.
When Dad mentioned he found the lump, Bellamy burst out laughing and then immediately broke down into hysterical sobs. Mom sounded like an automaton for the first time in her entire life as she detailed what the doctor had told her. Dad remained uncharacteristically mute.
So this is what I’m saying: What is an appropriate reaction when the center of your world finds out she’s mortal?
Once she’s finished telling us everything she knows—and once she’s promised us that she feels strong, and fine just fine—she tells us she wants to go lie down and be alone for a little while. But I can hardly breathe, and from the look on my father’s face, he’s faring much, much worse.
Bellamy and I sit and watch Clue with the volume practically on mute. She’s curled in my lap, and Dad has disappeared down the hall to their bedroom. On my phone’s browser, I read every website I can find on stage-three breast cancer, and with every new piece of information I mentally update the odds of my mother’s survival. The credits are rolling and then the screen goes blank before I realize the movie is over.
BUT THERE’S NOTHING I can do now. Mom doesn’t want us to do anything; she doesn’t want me taking care of her. She wants us to live our lives
and not let this monopolize our thoughts.
Does she not know Dad and me at all?
Only a few hours after she tells us, this cancer has become a thing, a living, breathing entity that takes up just as much space in our house as any of us do. It’s all I can think about, all I see when I look at her. And so I have no idea what to do with myself.
I thought there was a party at Lola’s new place tonight,
Mom says, and I snap back to the conversation. She looks perfectly normal, if not a little tired, flipping a grilled cheese and glancing at me over her shoulder. You know, making us dinner as if it’s a normal Friday night, nothing different. I can tell all three of us are watching her cook and suppressing our need to suggest she go sit down, relax, let us bring her something to eat.
She would kill us.
"There is… I hedge and steal a few shreds of cheese from her bowl.
But I’m staying here."
No, you’re not.
Mom turns and gives me her best don’t-argue-with-me face. Oliver’s store opens tomorrow.
I know.
You’re going out, and you’re staying at your place tonight,
Dad insists. I’m taking Mom to a movie and then I’m bringing her home and
—he does a slick little dance move behind her—you won’t want to be home for what comes next.
Oh God. I press my hands over my ears as Bellamy ducks and pretends to hide under the breakfast bar.
You win,
I tell him, trying to keep my tone light and shove down the panic I feel welling up inside of me. I don’t want to be away from my mom. But tomorrow we’re doing something with all four of us.
Dad nods and smiles bravely at me.
I’ve never seen him look so shaken.
IT’S ACTUALLY GOOD to get out, if I’m being honest. The worst thing we could do for Mom is sit around and watch every move she makes with our worried, woeful expressions. Dad assured me my role will come in the next few weeks and months. I can work with that. Bellamy is sweet, but she’s only eighteen and also oddly incapable. Every small errand stresses her out. It makes her good for the role of Stay Positive! I’m the daughter who gets shit done. I’ll be the daughter who drives Mom to appointments, asks too many questions, takes care of her when Dad needs to work, and will probably drive her crazy.
But right now, I feel awful.
And if there is anyone I want to see other than my family tonight, it’s my girls.
Lola’s new apartment is a huge step up from the dorms. I expected her to move in with me when we graduated, but she wanted to be downtown, and every time I visit I can’t really blame her. It’s situated just north of the Gaslamp Quarter in a new, giant-windowed high-rise with wide-open rooms, a view of the harbor, and a location only blocks away from the Donut Bar. Lucky woman.
Harlowwwww!
My name is shouted across the large living room and quickly I’m surrounded by four arms. Two are Lola’s, and two belong to London, Lola’s new roommate and the most adorable all-American girl you can imagine: sandy blond hair, freckles, dimples and a constant smile. She cools it down perfectly with her hot nerd girl glasses and wild clothes. Tonight, for example, I see she’s wearing a blue Tardis T-shirt, a polka-dot green and yellow skirt, and black-and-white–striped kneesocks. With Lola’s retro black dress and sleek Bettie Page thing going on, they make the rest of us look tragically unhip.
Hi Lola-London,
I say, pressing my face into Lola’s neck. I needed this.
Lola’s voice is muffled against my hair. That sounds like a stripper name.
London laughs, extracting herself from the tangle. Or the name of a drink?
One Lola-London on the rocks,
I say.
Well,
London says, pointing to the cooler on the kitchen floor. We can try inventing it tonight. I swear I bought everything. Mixers and booze and beer and nuts and—
She closes her eyes, raises her right hand in a rocker salute, and belts out, Fritos!
She turns running off to answer the door and I give Lola my nod of approval. I like that girl.
"Someone told me there is a fiesta in this casa!"
I turn to the sound of Ansel’s deep, accented voice, and every sound in the apartment dips for a beat before applause and laughter break out. He’s wearing a sombrero filled with tortilla chips. Because he’s an adorable idiot.
Mia breaks away from him, making a beeline to me, and wraps her arms around my shoulders. You okay?
I called Lola and Mia earlier, gave them both the truncated update, and they know me well enough to anticipate the magnitude of my panic.
I blink away from the delightful spectacle of Ansel doing some weird little bullfighter dance. Eh. You know.
She pulls back and studies my face before deciding, accurately, that I’m here for distraction and not to discuss my mom. We all turn to watch Ansel as he offers sombrero chips to someone. Seriously, his inner child is definitely alive and kicking.
I draw a circle in the air around my head. What is with the—
No idea.
Mia cuts me off. "He and Finn went out for beers earlier and back he comes with it. He hasn’t taken it off in hours, but has refilled it three times. Stand back ladies—she bends, digging a beer out of the cooler—
he’s all mine."
And at the mention of his name, I catch sight of Finn across the room. He must have come in with them. My stomach does an annoying clench-warm-flip move when he laughs over something Ansel says and lifts his arm to adjust his baseball hat. His bicep flexes and my stomach