Page 39 of All That Glitters

Chapter twenty-nine

Taco Summits and Life Choices

The sound of a key fumbling angrily in the lock was followed by the apartment door swinging open and Debbie stomping in, her face a thundercloud of rage. She slammed the door shut behind her then dropped her purse and keys on the entryway table with a loud clatter.

Veronica looked up from the couch where she was watching a reality TV show about competitive miniature poodle grooming. She watched Debbie stomp off down the hallway to her bedroom and return a minute later in her pajamas. One look at Debbie’s face and Veronica muted the TV.

“Whoa,” Veronica said. “Let me guess. The date with Jeff was a disaster?”

“Worse,” Debbie grumbled, marching straight to the kitchen. She flung open the freezer door, sending a rogue ice cube skittering across the floor.

“Did you accidentally back over his foot with your car?”

“Worse,” she repeated, her voice muffled as she rummaged through the freezer. She emerged a moment later holding a giant half-gallon tub of ‘Cookie Dough Catastrophe’ ice cream.

Veronica’s eyes widened. “Oh no. This is bad. This is ‘emergency ice cream’ bad. What happened?”

Debbie didn’t answer. She just grabbed the biggest spoon she could find from the utensil drawer, nudged the freezer door shut with her back, and stalked into the living room. She flopped onto the armchair, pried the lid off the ice cream, and dug out a heaping spoonful.

“This is all your fault,” she said, pointing the spoon accusingly at Veronica before shoving it in her mouth.

“My fault?” Veronica asked. “My brilliant plan to make Tony see you as a desirable woman is my fault? Did it not work?”

“Oh, it worked,” Debbie said, her mouth full of cookie dough chunks. “It worked so well that he’s now making out with a B-list movie star. Publicly. On Instagram.”

She pulled her phone from her pocket, found the offending photo, and tossed it to Veronica.

Veronica caught it, her eyes widening as she saw the picture. The soap-opera-worthy kiss, the cheesy caption… she let out a low whistle.

“Oh, that absolute moron,” Veronica breathed, staring at the photo. “That clueless, beautiful, world-class idiot.”

“He’s not the idiot,” Debbie mumbled around another spoonful of ice cream.

“I am. For thinking any of this would work. For thinking I could ever compete with… that. She probably doesn’t even eat carbs.

” She gestured with her spoon at the ice cream tub.

“This is what normal, non-movie-star girls do. We eat our feelings.”

Veronica handed the phone back. “Okay, first of all, my plan was brilliant in theory. The execution was clearly flawed by unforeseen levels of male denseness, a variable I failed to account for. Second, eating your feelings is a time-honored tradition, and I will not have you maligning it.”

She stood up and walked over to the pile of mail on the kitchen counter. “But while you were out having your heart curb-stomped by a man with the emotional intelligence of a houseplant, this came for you.”

She pulled out a thick, official-looking envelope and waved it in the air. “Looks important.”

Debbie looked at it blankly before taking another aggressive bite of ice cream. On its front were stickers showing that it had already been forwarded twice to previous addresses. “It’s probably a student loan bill. Just add it to the funeral pyre of my life.”

“It doesn’t feel like a bill,” Veronica said, walking over and handing it to her. “It’s too fancy.”

With a world-weary sigh, Debbie set the ice cream tub on her lap and tore open the envelope. She pulled out a heavy piece of stationery and unfolded it. Her eyes scanned the first few lines, her spoon hovering mid-air.

“... pleased to inform you...”

“... exceptional qualifications...”

“... acceptance into the Parisian Arts & Culture Immersion Program...”

The spoon clattered back into the tub. “No way,” she whispered.

“What is it?” Veronica asked, unable to stand the suspense. “Did you win the lottery? Because if so, we are definitely upgrading our ice cream situation.”

“I… I got in,” Debbie breathed, the words feeling foreign in her mouth. “The study-abroad program. I got into the Paris program.”

Veronica’s face broke into a huge grin. “Deb! That’s amazing! Paris! Like, ‘eels and croissants and hot French guys on Vespas’ Paris? This is incredible! When did you apply?”

“It was like six months ago,” Debbie said, staring at the letter. “I never thought…”

Her voice trailed off. She looked from the letter to the phone sitting on the coffee table.

Veronica’s smile faded slightly as she saw the conflict warring on her friend’s face. “Deb, this is awesome news. Why do you look like you’re trying to choose between getting a root canal or a tax audit?”

“I don’t know,” Debbie said, her voice small. “I mean, it’s France. That’s a huge deal, right?”

“Exactly,” Veronica said. “Full stop right there.”

“But...” Debbie continued, “it’s a whole semester. Isn’t that like running away?”

“Or running to,” Veronica countered gently.

Debbie slumped back in her chair, the spoon still abandoned in the ice cream. “I don’t know. My brain feels like scrambled eggs.”

Veronica looked at her heartbroken, ice-cream-binging friend, who was holding this golden ticket like it was a grenade. This called for a drastic intervention.

“I know what will fix this,” Veronica said. She stood up and pulled Debbie to her feet. “Get your shoes on. We’re going out.”

“Out where? I’m in my pajamas and I’m emotionally compromised.”

“To the one place that has all the answers, plus carbs and grease,” Veronica said. “The one place where all of life’s problems can be solved, or at least, temporarily drowned in cheese and guacamole.”

The taco shop was a greasy, late-night hole-in-the-wall, just a stone’s throw from the beach.

The salty night air mixed with the smell of fried tortillas and grilled carne asada.

Debbie and Veronica sat at a rickety outdoor table under a string of festive, multi-colored bulbs, a platter of rolled tacos piled high with guacamole and shredded cheese between them. This was emotional eating at its best.

Debbie, still in her pajamas, dipped her rolled taco into the small plastic cup of hot sauce and took a bite. She decided her heartbreak didn’t stand a chance against this mountain of carbs and grease.

Veronica, on the other hand, was all business. She had snatched a stack of paper napkins from the counter and a pen from the tip jar.

“Okay,” Veronica said, clicking the pen. “Operation: Figure Out Your Life, Part Two - The Taco Summit is officially in session.” She drew a messy line down the middle of the top napkin. “Pros and cons. Let’s do this.”

Debbie sighed, staring at the napkin. “My life has been reduced to a napkin doodle.”

“Your life is about to become an epic travel montage set to an indie pop song,” Veronica corrected. “Okay. Cons. Reasons for you to stay here in this beautiful, sunny city and marinate in misery.” She scribbled one word in big, angry letters on the right side of the napkin.

TONY

Debbie flinched. “Yeah,” she mumbled through another bite of rolled taco. “That’s a pretty big one.”

“Is it?” Veronica countered, looking at her pointedly.

“Debbie, look at me. He’s with someone else.

Or at least, he’s kissing someone else. Staying here and watching that unfold from the sidelines sounds like a special kind of self-torture that involves way more ice cream and sad movies than is healthy for any one person. ”

“But what if…” Debbie started, her voice small.

“No ‘what ifs,’” Veronica said firmly, but not unkindly.

“The ‘What If’ ship has sailed, hit an iceberg of stupidity, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean. So, we’re taking Tony off the ‘reasons to stay’ column and moving him firmly into the ‘reason to get a new passport stamp, STAT’ column.

” She scribbled furiously on the back of another napkin.

Debbie managed a weak smile. “Okay. What else?”

Veronica tapped her chin with the pen. “Well, there’s me.

I’m pretty awesome. Not having me around to steal pens and force-feed you rolled tacos would be a definite con.

” She wrote her own name under Tony’s. “But,” she said, looking Debbie straight in the eye, “I will be here when you get back. We can get that killer two-bedroom apartment near the beach we talked about. Unless, of course, you meet some ridiculously handsome French sculptor named Antoine who whisks you away to his artist’s loft overlooking the Eiffel Tower. ”

“I don’t think I’m in the headspace for ridiculously handsome French sculptors,” Debbie mumbled, taking another bite.

“Good. Their loss. My gain,” Veronica declared. “Any other cons? And no, ‘missing this specific taco shop’ does not count, no matter how good their guacamole is.”

Debbie thought for a moment, then shook her head.

“Okay then.” Veronica flipped the napkin over to the fresh, clean side. “Pros. Reasons for you to flee the country and eat your weight in brie.” Her pen started moving in a blur of motion.

“One: It’s Paris,” she said, underlining the word twice.

“Two: Croissants that are basically just a delivery system for butter. Three: You get to wear striped shirts and a beret and look chic instead of like a mime. Four: Art! The Louvre, Musée d’Orsay.

.. you can stare at naked statues without people thinking you’re a creep.

Five: Learning French, which is scientifically proven to be the sexiest language on Earth.

Six: Ridiculously handsome French sculptors named Antoine. ”

“You already said that one.”

“It’s a big enough pro to be worth two spots,” Veronica shot back without missing a beat.

“Seven: You can drink wine at lunch and it’s called ‘culture,’ not ‘a problem.’ Eight: The cheese.

My god, Debbie, the cheese! Nine: You’ll be thousands of miles away from Captain Oblivious and his plastic girlfriend.

Ten: Zero percent chance of a meet-cute with Tony happening in the frozen food aisle of Vons.

Eleven: Adventure! Twelve: A triumphant Instagram return that will make his head spin! ”

She kept going, her list growing longer and more absurdly enthusiastic, spilling from one napkin to the next until a small, connected paper chain of pros covered their table.

Finally, she put the pen down and gestured to the mountain of napkins with a flourish. “The evidence is overwhelming. The napkin-jury has reached a verdict.”

Debbie looked at the list, at the tangible representation of this other life waiting for her. A tiny flicker of excitement sparked through her. But it was quickly followed by a wave of fear.

“But what if I hate it?” she whispered. “What if I’m lonely and I don’t know how to ask for tacos in French?”

Veronica reached across the table and swiped a rolled taco from the pile, pointing it at her.

Her voice was soft now, all teasing gone.

“Debbie, look at me. Your life doesn’t get to stop because some clueless guy is being clueless.

This is your story. Are you going to let him be the main character in it, or are you going to be the main character in your own? ”

The question hung in the air. Debbie stared at the rolled tacos, at the napkins covered in Veronica’s excited scrawl, at her best friend’s fiercely loyal face. Running away felt like giving up. But maybe this wasn’t running away. Maybe this was running toward something. Toward herself.

Debbie gave a slow, almost hesitant nod. “Okay,” she said.

A huge, triumphant grin broke across Veronica’s face. She squeezed Debbie’s hand hard. “Okay, you’ll do it?”

“Yeah,” Debbie said, and this time, a real, watery smile touched her lips. “I’ll do it.”

Veronica let out a whoop that made the guy at the grill look over and nod in approval.

“Yes! This is the best decision you’ve ever made!

” She grabbed another rolled taco from the pile.

“Now, eat. You need strength. We’re going home to book your flight tonight.

And to Google how to say ‘more cheese, please’ in French. ”