Life and Other Inconveniences
PRAISE FOR
Good Luck with That
“Masterfully told, Good Luck with That is a story with which every woman will identify. We all deal with body image, self-esteem and acceptance of love at one time or another. Bravo, Kristan Higgins, bravo!”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber
“[This] story is one of hard-won victories that are far more heartrending because of Higgins’s ability to capture the struggle to get there with such deep understanding and empathy.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“An important and brave book. . . . I can’t imagine a single reader who won’t recognize herself somewhere in these pages.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Elizabeth Phillips
“Kristan Higgins is at the top of her game, stirring the emotions of every woman with the poignant reality of her characters.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Robyn Carr
“If you like stories that celebrate women’s challenges and triumphs, you’ll love this book.”
—New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs
“Wholly original and heartfelt, written with grace and sensitivity, Good Luck with That is an irresistible tale of love, friendship and self-acceptance—and the way body image can sabotage all three.”
—Lori Nelson Spielman, New York Times bestselling author of The Life List
“I LOVED Good Luck with That! It’s hilarious, heartbreaking, surprising and so true to life.”
—Nancy Thayer, New York Times bestselling author of A Nantucket Wedding
“Higgins writes with her trademark heart, humor and emotion, addressing the serious and somber subject of body image. . . . Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“[A] heartbreakingly gorgeous story of female friendship and what it takes to feel comfortable in one’s own skin.”
—Booklist
“Higgins’s astute, perceptive eye to the best and worst of human nature enhances the poignancy of a sensitive topic, which she navigates with humor and grace.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Higgins writes with uncommon grace and empathy.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019
Copyright © 2019 by Kristan Higgins
“Readers Guide” copyright © 2019 by Kristan Higgins
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Higgins, Kristan, author.
Title: Life and other inconveniences / Kristan Higgins.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018028835 | ISBN 9780451489425 (trade pbk.) | ISBN 9780451489432 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3608.I3657 L54 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018028835
First Edition: August 2019
Cover art: photo of dog underwater © Denis Moskvinov / Alamy Stock Photo
Cover design by Emily Osborne
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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This book is dedicated to Heidi Gulbronson, my wonderful, warm, wicked fun friend of so many years. I forgive you for the Stick Girl jokes.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In researching this book, the following people and organizations were incredibly helpful. I thank them for their generosity and time. Any mistakes are mine.
Jeff Pinco, MD
Annette Willis, JD
Stacia Bjarnason, PhD
National Suicide Prevention Hotline
The Mayo Clinic
The Tuberous Sclerosis Alliance
The Amniotic Fluid Embolism Foundation
Thanks to my agent and friend, Maria Carvainis, and her able team for absolutely everything.
At Berkley, it is such a joy to work with my brilliant editor, Claire Zion. Thanks to the wonderful Craig Burke and the fabulous team in publicity—Erin Galloway, Diana Franco, Roxanne Jones, Bridget O’Toole and Jin Yu. Marketing, art and sales, where would we authors be without you? Sitting by ourselves in our pajamas with only the dogs as companions, that’s where. Thank you for the humbling and overwhelming support and enthusiasm.
Mel Jolly has been my virtual assistant for a few years now, and I look back and wonder how life worked without her. Thank you, Mel. You are wonderful.
Thanks to Madison Terrill, my intern, for her enthusiasm, creativity and work ethic, and for making last summer’s work such a pleasure.
To author and singer Xio Axelrod for her talent, her writing and her friendship.
To the Plotmonkeys—Stacia, Huntley, Anne, Joss and Jennifer—thank you for your help, encouragement and laughs. I love you guys.
To my sister for being the best person there is.
To my husband, daughter and son, who are never surprised by the good reviews and think it’s cute that I still am, thank you for your faith in me. You are, quite simply, the loves of my life.
And to you, readers. Thank you for picking up this book and giving it a few hours of your time. I am so grateful.
CONTENTS
Praise for Good Luck with That
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Readers Guide
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
Emma
“You don’t have a brain tumor,” said my best friend, who, conveniently, was also a neurologist.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes, Emma. Don’t look so disappointed.”
“I’m not! I just . . . you know, my vision was wonky last night. Then I spaced out driving into the city today.” Granted, last night I’d accidentally turned on the superbright flashlight while it was aimed right at my face, but still . . . the retinal afterimage had taken some time to subside. As for spacing out, I drove into Chicago a few times a week, so it was normal that I didn’t take note of every detail on the forty-five-minute drive. Still, I couldn’t help asking, “Are you sure it’s not parahypnagogia?”
“Stop looking up medical terms,” Calista said. “You’re healthy. You’re not dying. Riley will not grow up motherless, and besides, she’s sixteen, and if you did die, I would adopt her and raise her as my own. Screw her baby daddy.”
“I did screw him. Hence our child. But I’ll make sure you get custody. She does like you better.”
Calista smiled. “Of course she does. Are we still on for drinks Thursday?”
“We are. Thanks for checking me out.”
“Stop staring into flashlights.”
“You put it that way, it sounds so stupid,” I said.
“It is stupid, hon. Now go. I have actual sick patients.”
I kissed her on the cheek and walked out of her office. Yes, I was a hypochondriac. But I was also a single mother, so my death did figure prominently into my daily musings. As a therapist, I knew that was a normal fear—leaving my daughter, the upheaval it would cause her. She’d have to live with her father back in Connecticut, and he had two other kids (and a wife). And what would happen to my grandfather, who’d taken me in when I was a knocked-up teenager? We still lived with him, and I didn’t want him to be alone. I’d lost my own mom at a young age . . . Would Riley be as screwed up as I’d been?
Calista was right. I had to get over this. I knew I was healthy, but diagnosing myself with all sorts of horrible diseases was kind of a hobby. After all, the Internet was invented for a reason.
But I trusted Calista, who was brilliant and my friend. Feeling considerably cheered, I walked out onto Michigan Avenue, blinking in the spring sunshine. The Magnificent Mile glittered, washed clean by two days of bone-chilling rain earlier this week, but in typical midwestern fashion, we suddenly seemed to be in the middle of summer, even if it was only May.
No brain tumor. Hooray. Also, drinks with Calista, which still sounded cool and adult, despite our being thirty-five. Unlike me, Calista was single with no kids and had her act completely together, whereas I still felt like I was faking the adult thing.
Except where Riley was concerned. I was a good mother, that I knew. Even if she was struggling a bit these days, I was on it. I was there. I stalked her social media accounts and read her texts (don’t judge me . . . she was still a minor child, after all). Tonight was Nacho Night at our house, and even if Riley had been a little sullen these days, nachos would surely cheer her up.
The twisting skyline of the City of Big Shoulders glittered in the fresh air. I loved being in Chicago proper. Today, before my brain tumor check, I’d seen a client in the shared office suite I leased with a group of therapists. I was still new to the profession and grateful to have access to the posh space. Most of the time, I worked from home, doing online counseling for people who didn’t want to be seen walking into a therapist’s office. TheraTalk, the secure Skype-like software that let me see patients online, was less than ideal, but that was okay. I found I counseled the really troubled people better with a little distance.
Pain was always hard to see up close. If I teared up online, or wanted to smack a client, it was easier to hide.
But the office made me feel like a proper therapist, and my client today, Blaine, was an easy case. She had adjustment disorder, which was the general diagnosis that allowed me to get paid by her insurance. Blaine had never adjusted to her in-laws and liked venting about them. I’d suggest ways to answer that didn’t involve curse words or the throwing of wine bottles, which was Blaine’s fantasy, and she’d nod and agree and come back next month with a new story. Easy-peasy and actually kind of fun to hear the tales. Her real issue was feeling confident enough to contradict her mother-in-law, and not backing down, but we were getting there.
Maybe I’d swing by the Ghirardelli shop and get some ice cream. Then again, we had ice cream at home, if Pop hadn’t eaten it all, and I couldn’t justify spending six bucks on a cone.
I walked past an empty storefront, then jerked to a halt. Turned around and looked. My hands and feet tingled before my brain caught up.
Yep. That was a harbinger of doom, all right.
To the untrained eye, it looked like a pink leather handbag, adorably retro but with a sassy blue tassel sexing it up a bit. Nevertheless, I knew what it was. A pink purse of doom.
Shit, shit, shit.
For a second, I forgot where I was, transported instantly to my childhood, when I always felt like an outcast, like a stupid, unwanted kid, like I’d done something wrong just by breathing.
GENEVIEVE LONDON DESIGNS, Coming Soon
ACCESSORIES, FASHION & HOME GOODS FOR THE DISCERNING CONSUMER
My reflection in the glass showed me for what I was—not a discerning consumer, not a fashionable woman, just an ordinary-looking person with her dark blond hair pinned up in a graceless bun, wearing dark pants and a dark shirt, both polyester. This morning, I thought I looked nice. Crisp. Professional.
Right now, I looked droopy, hot and . . . scared.
This was not how Genevieve would’ve crafted me.
For years, I’d done a bang-up job of forgetting that Genevieve London was my grandmother and had raised me from the age of eight to eighteen. It was easy, considering we hadn’t spoken for seventeen years.
Riley would see this, of course. She knew her great-grandmother was that Genevieve London, though they’d never met. Some of her friends had Genevieve London purses and shoes. The arrival of one of her shops in Chicago would not be good news. Riley, being sixteen, was bound to have strong feelings about this one way or another. Bad feelings, probably, given the black rain cloud she’d been living under for the past few months.
Coming soon.
At least I’d had this warning. God! Imagine walking past this store’s grand opening and seeing the Gorgon after all these years. I could use the drive home today to figure out what to say to Riley and how to head off any expectations she might have . . . like the idea that Genevieve might want to see us.
Riley’s friends hung out on Michigan Avenue all the time, now that they were sixteen, and someone was bound to see the store and tell her . . . and Riley was sure to tell them she was Genevieve’s great-granddaughter. Would her friends even believe her? Genevieve London was an international brand. Riley and Pop and I . . . we were just regular folks.
I hurried up, walking briskly to my car, sweat streaming down my back. I’d dressed up today to look the part, but I regretted it now. My left heel was rubbing in the unfamiliar pump.
All these years without a Genevieve London boutique in Chicago. Sure, Genevieve’s stuff was in all the high-end department stores, but a dedicated store . . . ugh. I’d been naive enough to imagine she’d stayed out of Chicago because she knew we were here. But no. Her empire was expanding still.
I didn’t want to assume this would bother Riley . . . and I didn’t want to assume that it wouldn’t. I didn’t want her to think I was upset. I didn’t want her to feel rejected, and I didn’t want her to get her hopes up, and I didn’t want her to sublimate any of those feelings if she had them, and I didn’t want her to feel she couldn’t tell me
about them if she had them, and I didn’t want her to feel that she had to tell me about them if she didn’t want to.
Being a single mother and a therapist was very complicated.
A few years ago, I’d told Riley the facts: Genevieve London of the adorable purses was my grandmother, and I’d lived with her for ten years after my mother died because my father couldn’t take care of me. I explained that Genevieve wasn’t the nicest person, so we didn’t talk anymore. Since my father never came to visit, it was easy not to say anything more about the London side of the family.
I only told Riley because my grandfather (on my mother’s side, clearly) had recommended it, and Pop was seldom wrong. Can’t hide the truth forever, he said. I’d answered that I didn’t want to hide it as much as ignore it, which he said was the same thing.
To the best of my knowledge, Riley didn’t tell her friends about her link to Genevieve; the girls never mentioned it or asked me questions when they came over, the same three girls Riley had been friends with for ages.
But sixteen was the age when you tried to impress your friends, after all, and how many girls had great-grandmothers who designed handbags owned by Adele, the First Lady and Oprah, or had a two-page ad spread in the spring edition of Vogue? I pictured Riley and her friends going into the store, a snooty manager giving my precious daughter a cool once-over before cutting her down with a razor-sharp comment. Because if I knew my grandmother, she’d have instructed her manager to do just that. She would’ve written it herself and told her staff to practice it. “Ms. London doesn’t have a great-granddaughter,” the manager might say. “Is there something I can show you?”
My grandmother had eviscerated me; I didn’t want her near my child.
Traffic on 290 West made the trip home longer, and the midwestern heat pulsed down through the windshield, daring my Honda’s AC to keep up. By the time I pulled up to Pop’s humble house in Downers Grove, my skin felt hot and tight, and the rearview mirror showed my blond hair flattened by heat, a clenched jaw, red cheeks, and worry making my brown eyes look too wide. Overall, a little on the crazy side.