Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink Read Online Free PDF

see, Seema owns her house; I am just renting a room from her. I have agreed to move out when Scott moves in. And the rental market in Los Angeles is everything you’d think it would be in terms of both affordability and quality—meaning it lacks either one or both of those features, depending on where you look.
    By the fifth time I am asked, “How is the apartment hunt going?” and “Are you excited to finally get to live alone?” I have switched to full-sugar Coke and begun counting down the minutes before we start the opening of the presents (Ooh … Aah…), the pulling of the charms from the cake (Yikes! Really?), and the hugging good-bye of the guests, followed by the postgame gossip session (“She’s back together with that loser?” “I swear to God if I had those Miss Piggy legs, I would never wear that skirt”).
    An hour later, we have all stuffed ourselves with mini quiches, mini arugula-and-shrimp pizzas, melon balls with prosciutto, and bowls of namkeens (a sort of spicy, salty snack mix) and samosas (Indian potato pastries). The food is amazing, Nic’s place is beautiful, it’s a great opportunity to see my friends—and yet I just want to curl up in a ball and cry.
    At some point, I wander into the empty kitchen, ostensibly to get more food, but really to take a time-out. I walk over to Nic’s sink and admire her backsplash.
    Nic has two stepdaughters (bonus daughters, she calls them), Megan and Malika, who are ten and six. They’re constantly drawing pictures, so last year she had her favorites turned into kitchen tiles, which she has turned into a backsplash above her counter. The pictures show the kids’ versions of a perfect family. One was made by Malika when she was five and is a line drawing that looks like four little snowmen in the family: big snow-daddy Jason, slightly smaller snow-stepmommy Nic, an even smaller Megan, and the smallest, Malika. Next to that is a much more artistically advanced Christmas tree; a heart tile made by a smaller child with I Love You written in the middle, an arrow going through it diagonally; and about a gazillion tiles showing stick figures, hearts, and I Love You s in various combinations.
    A long line of pictures representing nothing but peace, tranquility, and love. Not to mention knowing what your life’s passion truly is, and that you’re fulfilling it daily.
    I’m horribly jealous of Nic for a moment. I wish I knew what my life’s passion was. I wish I had something in my life I was motivated to work on every day.
    I hear the kitchen doors swing open, and turn around to see Nic. “You okay?” she asks quietly.
    “Never better,” I lie, smiling and holding up my flute of Coke for a toast.
    The two vertical lines between her brows shows me she doesn’t believe me. “You missing Danny right now?”
    “Not exactly,” I tell her truthfully. Though I do wonder why I’m feeling such sadness in my gut right now, almost like a weight that’s pulling me down. I absentmindedly play with a white doily on her shiny granite counter. “I think I miss what I thought he’d be. Or I miss knowing what I thought my future was going to look like. Or … I don’t know…” My voice peters out.
    Nic sits down on a chair at her kitchen island. “None of us ever really know—”
    “—what our future is. Yeah, I know, I get that. But you know you’re going to be a mom, Seema knows she’s going to be a wife. I just … I guess I just wish I knew what I was going to be. Like, if I knew I would always be single … okay, fine. Maybe I’d be okay with that. Maybe I wouldn’t keep hoping for something that doesn’t exist.”
    Nic’s stares at me, clearly studying me. “What are you hoping for?”
    I think about her question for ten seconds, then twenty. It’s a good question. Finally, I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s part of the problem.”
    Nic considers my answer. “For the cake, you wanted the passport charm. Where do you want to