Page 225 of The Art of Almost Losing It
“Let me stop you right there,” Piper cuts in. “Kraig is a weirdo. He stole your undies.”
“He could be a weirdo and still be right about Graham,” I hiss. “Why else would he want to be with me? Look around.”
We step into a luxury boutique, the walls lined with silk and sequins and women who look like they belong in a fashion magazine.
“This is billionaire Disney World,” I whisper. “Any woman here would be a better match for him.”
“Or,” Piper says, “maybe he actually likes you. For you.”
Colette and the Girl Squad are already shopping. Gran’s describing the barely there cocktail dresses we need for dinner.
The sales associates hardly glance at me and Piper—until I pull out Graham’s credit card while searching for my ChapStick.
“Oh yeah,” Maya tells the sales girls. “Her almost-hubby is paying because she got lucky.”
Their smiles sharpen instantly. Champagne appears. Cheese. Chocolate.
I sink into the couch.
“Oh well, why not?”
Sipping my champagne, I start to relax. Out here, on the other side of the world, no one is talking about the kidnapped girl in the blurry video. Hopefully, by the time I get back stateside, it will all be forgotten.
Dani:How’s it going?
Dani:Sorry about your credit card.
“Delete that.Don’t send him that.” Gran swats me as she reads over my shoulder.
“We spent way more at that boutique than we should have,” I protest.
“You think we should’ve spent zero dollars. I’m here for a good time, not a long time,” Gran declares as we’re seated at a table overlooking the snowy ski slopes.
“I am so glad you came,” Colette says to Gran warmly. “You’re so much more fun than Dani. It’s crazy, it’s like Dani’s the senior citizen.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Gran says. “If I had a hot young body, you’d never keep me inside. I’d be drowning in dick.”
“I bought new clothes,” I remind them.
“You look cute. Like a chubby little winter bunny rabbit.” Colette smirks.
My practical Costco snowsuit has been officially labeled an embarrassment, which is how I ended up in a white faux-fur coat and matching skirt from the boutique. I think the effect was supposed to be snow princess, but yeah, I’m definitely giving roadkill.
“It’s my life’s work to make that girl a functional sexual being. Thank God Graham came along, because I was going to have to inject her with sperm I found on the internet in order to get a great-grandbaby. Don’t get your panties all twisted up,” Gran calls to me while the waiter is probably thinking that we’re uncultured American swine. “I would have made sure it was high-quality sperm.”
“Graham’s got high-quality sperm.” Maya giggles.
“You better make sure you keep him happy, or someone else is going to snap him up,” Greta adds.
We’re seated at an outdoor fondue terrace overlooking the ski slopes. Heat lamps glow overhead. The table is set with bubbling copper pots—one cheese, one chocolate—and platters piled high with crusty bread, roasted potatoes, apples, strawberries, marshmallows, and slices of smoked sausage.
Steam from the ceramic pots curls into the cold mountain air. Below us, skiers carve elegant lines down the mountain.
I breathe in the smell of melted cheese and fresh snow.
Piper and I are seated on the outskirts of the long table, but I don’t mind.
“This is what I came here for.” I tear off a piece of crusty baguette, spear it with a fork, and dunk it into the cheese sauce.
