Notes From the Backseat Read Online Free PDF

some correspondence.” That satisfied his curiosity a bit too readily. How does he know I’m not penning love letters to my six-foot-seven husband who currently resides in San Quentin? What does Coop care about that—he just listens to Dannika going on and on about the great times they’ve shared, careening wildly in and out of traffic. I can’t hear much of what they’re saying; random phrases drift back at me every now and then like bits of confetti, but I find little comfort in them. I hear Dannika calling out crazy night and that time in Seville and thought I’d die. I see her turning to him, her bright white teeth shining as she laughs, her profile so perfect and well-shaped it’s sculptural. They’re happily reminiscing, reliving their years of chummy intimacy, and I’m the recent acquisition, the girl-come-lately.
    Okay, we’re stopping. I’ve got to snap out of this. I’m working myself into a fuming little wad of rage back here. Smoke’s coming out of my ears. If I don’t regain control, Coop is going to see I’m a possessive, pint-sized freak with no sense of humor.
    More later…
    Hugs and kisses from the Furious Midget,
Gwen

Thursday, September 18
    10:23 a.m.
    Â 
    D ear 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