The Next Best Thing Read Online Free PDF

maternal pride that her protégée and heir apparent took such a lickin’ but was still standing tall.
    If they had a definition for bad bitch in the dictionary, Sophie’s picture would be right there. Back in the ’70s, her first husband left her with eleven dollars and four babies. She threw rent parties for herself, put on fashion shows—anything to make money. Now, over thirty years later, Sophie Wilkerson Events is a multimillion-dollar-a-year business.
    Sophie believes that true ladies do not reveal their ages, so her exact age is unknown. But looking at her even with all the Botox, Thermage, and weekly facials, I would have to put her around sixty. At least.
    Either way, she’s still fierce with her perpetually bronze skin tone and short pixie haircut.
    And talk about a sense of style! Old girl never fails to impress in something chic and free-flowing like the white, Chanel pantsuit she wore today, which made her look like she was floating on a breeze. Immediately, Sophie pulled me into a warm hug and said, “I have taught you well,” in her husky, Eastern European accent, which has always puzzled me since she was born and raised in Scottsdale, Arizona.
    â€œIt’s good to be back,” I said, meaning it sincerely.
    Over the years, I have learned priceless pearls of wisdom from Sophie, such as If you’re having a bad day, the only person who should know that is you, True professionals never let personal problems interfere with business, and her favorite, Crying is for the weak. If you must do it, please let it be on your own time.
    Little did Sophie know that I have been doing just that; crying on my own time.
    In the days following my ordeal, I fell into a mini-depression, which I tend to do after every breakup.
    This time around, I didn’t leave the house for three days straight. During that time, the UPS delivery guy who came to pick up Roland’s stuff was the only person I had face-to-face contact with. I did not comb my hair, or go down to the lobby to pick up a newspaper or check the mail.
    What I did do, though, was throw myself one helluva pity party. I baked my favorite lemonade cake with the intention of eating every last bit of it by myself. I pigged out on what was left of the spicy scallops, and lobster mashed potatoes, drank way too much champagne, and cried a river’s worth of tears. I felt like Sybil, with all these different moods and emotions that would change what seemed like every few seconds. One minute I thought I had a grip on things, and the next minute, I would burst into tears and have a “Damn, damn, damn!” moment like Florida Evans.
    Meanwhile, the phone was ringing off the hook with folks calling to check on me and treating me all fragile and shit, the way you would a mental patient on suicide watch.
    Mama was so worried about my frame of mind that she suggested I come spend some time with her and Daddy, which is something that really would send me over the edge.
    As much as I love my parents, eighteen years under their roof was long enough. And I really didn’t care to relive the childhood trauma of hearing the two of them making love in the middle of the night.
    Anyway, after about the hundredth call, I just stopped answering the phone and let the answering machine pick up.
    â€œTori, this is your Aunt Vera. I’m just calling to check on you, and make sure you haven’t done anything stupid. I love you…give me a call.”
    â€œHey, sis, this is Junior. Don’t even worry about that Roland stuff, best believe he’s gonna get handled! Anyway, I’m a little short on my child support payment this month, think you can let me borrow like, two-hundred dollars? Peace.”
    â€œTori, this is Yvette. Pick up the damn phone!”
    â€œHey cuz, this is Cookie…I know you’re goin’ through it, but you can at least call me back, shit. Bye!”
    I knew they meant well, but I just could