Читать книгу Notes from the Backseat - Jody Gehrman - Страница 10

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.