The road to happiness is full of surprises…
Last week, we revealed the cover of Run Baby Run, the hilarious new queer romance for summer by Melissa Lenhardt. Read on for a synopsis and the first chapter of the book. And don’t forget to pre-order Run Baby Run now!
Synopsis
Darcy Evans doesn’t have the time or the patience for a road trip up with her estranged mother, Marja. She’s busy running her website, getting married in a week, and trying to figure out how she feels about a bombshell confession of love, from her best friend – and her fiance’s sister – Chloe. She does not need a secretive mother with no interest in explaining herself, and her dog who barks when Darcy swears – which is a lot!
Marja had a very good reason for not telling Darcy why she cut off contact, and an even better reason for keeping it from her now. She is keeping her safe. Until two flat tires in the middle of the night ends with FBI agents, a runaway dog, and Marja standing over the tow truck driver with a smoking gun.
So now is the perfect time to reconnect and figure out the mystery of life and love…
*
As soon as I walked out of the airport, I remembered why I didn’t miss Texas.
The freaking heat.
I’d barely taken five steps out of the terminal when my eyes were blinded by the bright Texas sun and my pale skin singed in the dry heat. I found an out-of-the-way spot to stand in a sliver of shade, rolled down my shirtsleeves, and searched through my backpack for my sunglasses. My eyes have always been sun-sensitive, just like my skin. That’s why I needed my sunglasses, of course it is. Not because my head was pound- ing, and my mouth felt and tasted like the bottom of Don Draper’s ashtray. I dug in my backpack but found no joy. Of course, I’d forgotten them. Just as I’d forgotten my driver’s li- cense and passport.
For the record, you can get through TSA without an ID, but they get personal. Very personal.
I know, I know. You’re probably wondering what kind of professional traveler I am.
That Saturday in October I was the kind of ten-year prowho woke up ninety minutes before my f light, hungover and vaguely ashamed of my behavior the night before, and delayed the plane at the gate because I was puking up red wine and chocolate cake in the washroom before takeoff (and was thank- ful to make it, truth be told). We all have those days, admit it, and I’d had much worse traveling days than that, I can assure you. In fact, as much as I hate to admit it, getting myself out of travel jams is kind of my brand. Sometimes it doesn’t matter how much you plan, sht happens. I wrote a book about it, in fact. Sht Happens or Why It’s More Important to Be Flexible than Prepared. My first NYT bestseller. Don’t get me wrong; I’m a planner and a little obsessive about it. I’m also willing and eager to throw out a plan if needs must, and too often needs must. I am absolutely, 100 percent the woman you want to be with when you sprain your ankle in Venice, have a f lat tire and no spare in western Iceland, or get lost on the Walk of the Gods trail in Italy. Nothing phases me and, so far, there hasn’t been a situation I haven’t been able to problem solve my way out of. Sometimes, I can even charm my way out of tight spots, though I usually leave that to Chloe.
Which brings me to my go bag, the bag I always have packed in case of a last-minute trip or weekends away. All the Wan- der Women have one—me, Chloe, Jess, and Ella. We used to prank each other by switching clothes around so Jess would be stuck with Chloe’s wedges and sundresses when she showed up to an outdoor gear convention, or I would have f lannels and hiking shorts when going to LA to review the latest luxury spa resort. We’d all gotten wise and started checking bags before we left, so it took a special set of circumstances for anyone to be able to pull it off.
Like being hungover and late for a flight on a Saturday morning to see my mother, to speak to my mother, for the first time in three years.
So, instead of a weekend bag for a tall woman with skin so fair I almost qualify as handicapped, I had all the clothes and makeup for a petite, Desi American chef. I mean the snacks are great, but Ella’s style tends to animals prints and chef whites. My capsule wardrobe is full of neutral basics and colorful scarves. And underwear Ella, I had no idea.
On the bright side, I’d already written, “Up Close and Per- sonal: How to Get Through Airport Security Without Your ID” on the plane. Who knows how many articles I’d get out of my first road trip with Marja in years? Writing about our poor man’s vacations had started my career, and I’m not going to lie; one of the only reasons I agreed to this road trip was to get an article or two out of it. #AdventureswithMarja had always been good for a laugh or two and lots of engagement. I scrolled through the alerts and messages that came through while I was in the air. Instagram likes and messages. TikTok and Twitter notifications. Jess and Ella checking on me in our WhatsApp group. A text from Michael asking me to let him know when I land. Nothing from Chloe. Headline news that everything is shit and the world is ending.
That headline hit a little too close to home.
The night before, the well-ordered, successful life I’d worked so hard to achieve, and the future I’d planned out, had been hit with a truth bomb that I never expected and have no idea how to manage. I shouldn’t have gotten on the plane that morn- ing. I should have stayed in Chicago and managed this crisis, because it absolutely was a crisis. Chloe was the only person who I want to talk to, the only person who could help me, and was the one person who’d gone radio silent.
The only person I didn’t want to talk to was Michael, my fiancé. All the confusion and uncertainty I’d been ignoring since I’d reluctantly agreed to a big wedding were front and center in my mind, and in my heart.
Oh, by the way, Chloe is my best friend and has been since we met the first day of freshman year at the University of Texas. Did I mention that Michael is Chloe’s brother? I didn’t, did I?
And, since I’m oversharing, I should probably just come out and tell you that Chloe dropped the truth bomb, telling me she loved me, was in love with me, and had been for years.
So, yeah. My mind was spiraling out of control with what it all meant, what I felt, what I should do. I needed to sit in a quiet room and think. Write a pros and cons list. Freewrite in my journal so I could figure out what I needed to do. What I wanted to do.
The last thing I wanted was to be in the same car with my mother, Marja Evans, for twelve hours with no privacy and no means of escape.
I looked at my watch. My f light had been on time but was Marja? No, of course not. I gritted my teeth. One of the rea- sons I loved traveling alone was that I was never at someone else’s whim or on their timetable.
A text popped up from Michael. Thank God he didn’t call. Knowing me, I would have blurted everything in one breath. Managing the fallout from that when I was a thousand miles away would’ve been too much for even me to manage.
How was your surprise shower? Get anything interesting? *wiggles eyebrows*
You knew it was a sex toy shower, didn’t you?
Lol. Of course, I did. I put in a lot of requests I’ll have you know.
And here I thought the strap on with the enormous rainbow dildo was a gag gift from Jess.
You can pass that off to Chloe. I’m sure she’ll get some use out of it.
I ignored the message, and my plummeting stomach.
How’s Marja? Late, as usual.
Uh-oh, the forgiveness tour is off to a bad start, I see. Told you. How’s the bachelor weekend so far?
I’m too old for Vegas with a bunch of guys. The golf is great, but I don’t like to gamble, and I’ve had about all the bottle service I want for the rest of my life.
It’s only been one night!
Like I said. I’m old. I’m doing this for Tate, not me.
I rolled my eyes. Michael’s childhood friend, Tate, was an a-hole. A recently divorced (shocker) a-hole who was using Michael’s bachelor party as an excuse to go to Vegas and probably pay for a hooker or two.
You’re right. Tate’s an a-hole. Lol
I smile. Michael knows me so well.
I’m not saying a word, though what do you expect with a name like Tate Rivers? How none of you called him Tater is a mystery to me. I mean it was right there.
My phone rang. I expected it to be Michael, but it wasn’t. Chloe.
“Sht, sht, sht, sht.”
I didn’t want to answer, not really. I’m not nearly as brave as I let on, especially when it comes to being vulnerable with people. But I needed to answer. My wedding was in a week, and I couldn’t say I do until Chloe and I finished the conver- sation we started the night before. I swiped my phone with a shaking hand.
“Hang on, Chlo.”
I switch apps and send a quick text to Michael.
Gotta go. I’ll text you from the road.
I sent it before I could second-guess myself.
I took a deep breath and put a smile on my face. Brazen it out. Ignore the albatross over our heads for as long as pos- sible. “Hey.”
“You arrived safely.” I could hear humor in Chloe’s voice, which was a relief considering. At least she wasn’t angry.
“The go bag prank? Really?”
“That’s all Jess and Ella. I wasn’t there, remember?” “Yeah.”
There was a long pause. Was this her testing the waters? Did she want to talk about it? Or pretend it didn’t happen and move on with our lives and friendship the same way they’d been a little over fourteen hours ago? Had it only been four- teen hours? It felt like much longer, and it felt like it had just happened. I touched my lips.
“How do you feel this morning?” Chloe asked.
One question, two different meanings, and God only knows how many answers. I took the coward’s way out.
“Do you feel as hungover as I do?” I asked.
“No, but I drink more than you do on a regular basis,” Chloe said.
“I puked in the airplane washroom.”
“I saw that on the group message. Even I haven’t done that.” “I vomited so much I delayed the plane.”
Chloe laughed. “I’m sorry, Fitz.”
“No, no. It’s fine. I’m sure I’ll laugh about it eventually, but right now I’m sweaty and angry and nauseous.”
“Marja hasn’t shown yet, huh?” “Nope.”
“Take a deep breath and remember what we talked about. Don’t get angry because then she’ll clam up. You probably won’t get all the answers at once so…”
“Pepper the questions I want answers to in with easy ones.” “Right. People like to talk about themselves.”
That was true in theory, but Marja wasn’t like most people. She’d learned a long time ago that there wasn’t any use trying to set people straight about the kind of woman or mother she was, so she stopped trying. She knew who she was, and I knew who she was, and that was good enough. I would have agreed with her until three years ago when she stopped calling or tex- ting or returning mine. The mother I knew wouldn’t do that.
“This is going to suck.”
“Darcy Elizabeth Evans, you are the strongest person I know. You’ve got this.”
Affection for my best friend swelled in my chest. “Thanks, Chlo.”
“Now for the good news,” Chloe said. “Oh my God, yes, please.”
“Kate Murphy called. Athena Capital is in.” “What? Already?”
“Already.” I heard the smile in Chloe’s voice. “She’s send- ing the contracts to our lawyers today, and she wants us to get together for a drink Monday night to get to know each other better.”
I put my hand on my head to keep it from spinning off my body. “Holy sht.”
Chloe laughed. “I think this news warrants the full shit, Fitz. We just secured funding from the hottest venture capital fund in the country. I told you we crushed that presentation.” We had crushed the presentation. It was a nice change of pace, giving a presentation to a woman and her all female team who understood our mission. We didn’t have to spend the majority of our time justifying WanderWomen.com’s right to exist and answering inane questions like, “Aren’t you leaving 50 percent of the travel market out by focusing your website only on women?” and “I don’t know one woman who travels by herself” and the inevitable gem, “What about family travel? That’s a huge market you aren’t tapping into.”
I sat down heavily on the bench nearest me trying to come to grips with all Chloe, Ella, Jess, and I had been through and done to get to this point. It all started with a podcast idea born one boring Tuesday night when we all happened to be in town and decided to kill a bottle of wine. It turned into five bottles by the time we’d finished giggling our way through telling each other our most ridiculous travel stories. I won with the boat orgy, of course. I always win with the boat orgy.
“We should start a podcast,” Chloe had said. No surprise.
All of our crazy ideas started with Chloe.
“What will we call it?” Jess said. “Four Drunk Millennials?” “Not a bad title,” Chloe said.
“My mother’s head would explode,” Ella said. “Wander Women,” I mumbled, eyes closed.
And Wander Women had stuck. We started it as a biweekly podcast, calling in from wherever we were in the world to tell stories of our trips. Over time, we honed the format, with me as the primary host because I prepared for the podcast whereas Chloe and Jess, especially, were more f ly by the seat of their pants podcasters. Ella had been in the midst of opening her first restaurant and had to bow out, but had returned occasion- ally to check in, especially when I had a food traveler guest on. Our audience grew slowly at first, then exponentially, and the website we created for the podcast archives morphed into a blog and then into a full-f ledged women’s travel site. Between our jobs that paid the bills, freelancing jobs that paid for avocado toasts and $10 lattes (/sarcasm), Wander Women had grown as much as it could. Now, Chloe, Jess, and I were making the jump into Wander Women full time, but we needed venture capital money to do it. Which is where Athena Capital came in.
“Yes, it’s really happening. I told you so,” Chloe said.
“You were right,” I said.
“Say that again?” It was nice to hear teasing in Chloe’s voice. “Absolutely not. Your ego is big enough already.”
I stood up from the bench and swiped my hand across the back of my linen pants, worried that the sweat from sitting for a few minutes had soaked through. Freaking Texas. “I bet I can catch the next f light back.”
Chloe pulled the phone away from her ear and shouted, “Ella, you owe me ten bucks!”
I heard Ella’s voice in the distance. “Dammit!”
“It was a sucker bet,” Jess’s distant voice said. “Ha ha,” I replied.
“You don’t need to come back,” Chloe said. “There’s so much to do. And to talk about.” Chloe took her time answering. “No, there’s not.”
My stomach dropped. I wasn’t expecting that answer. “There’s not?”
“There will be after we meet with Kate on Monday. Until then, forget about everything else and enjoy your time with your mother.”
I was too stunned to reply. I mean, it was what I wanted, right? Pretend nothing happened. But I didn’t want Chloe to want the same thing. I wanted her to…tell me she loves me again? Beg me to not marry Michael? She’d apologized last night and said she’d made a mistake. That she shouldn’t have said anything, taken her secret to the grave. I suppose she meant it. Obviously, she meant it.
I’m not sure how I feel about that. “Speaking of, tell Marja I said hi.”
It took me a moment for the change in subject to register. “Right. Yeah. She still isn’t here. I could kill your mother right now,” I said, needing to focus my anger on someone.
“She’ll be disappointed she’s not your favorite anymore,” Chloe said.
I’d idolized Eloise Parsons from the moment I met her as Chloe’s new friend at the University of Texas. Eloise was beautiful and successful and oozed confidence and charm, and Chloe was just like her. I’m still not sure what Chloe saw in me, a small-town bastard whose wardrobe was a combination of Goodwill and Walmart, but we’ve been best friends from almost the moment we met. I guess it wasn’t much of a sur- prise that I idolized Eloise; she was everything Marja wasn’t. And, as long as I was being completely basic, it’s not much of a surprise that I fell in love with Chloe’s older brother, Mi- chael, the first time I saw him. On his wedding day. It would take ten years for his marriage to end and him to finally see me as anything other than his little sister’s friend. Within six months we were engaged. Within a week we will be married.
That was the plan anyway.
What was never part of the plan was Marja attending my wedding. I had specifically told Eloise that I didn’t want her there. I didn’t want the wedding either, but that’s a story for another time. She agreed with but she decided later and with- out consulting me that Marja was my mother and should be invited. After Marja accepted, and cooked up this ridiculous road trip to trap me in the car with her for twelve hours, Elo- ise told me that she never expected Marja to accept. “Inviting her was the right thing to do, Darcy. She’s the only family you have in the world.” Until that moment, I thought the Parsons were my family. Eloise and her husband, Robert, had said it often enough. I told myself that she didn’t mean anything by the comment, but it still stung. I’ve moved on from it all, but a part of me still harbors some resentment from my wishes being ignored.
“Chloe, if Marja’s not here in five minutes, I’m coming back to Chicago.”
“I kinda hope she doesn’t show up,” Chloe says. “You do? You just told me not to come back.”
“Sorry, Fitz. I’m a little scattered this morning. I shouldn’t have left last night.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” “I was confused.”
“So was I.”
It was a relief to know that Chloe and I shared the same un- certainty. Of course Chloe and I will be able to sit down and talk everything through when I get back. Last night was the closest to a fight we’ve ever come. I know that sounds unbelievable, but we’ve always been able to talk to each other about everything.
“Having a few days to think will be good for us, though,” I said.
“It will?”
A red convertible 1969 Mustang with the top down rolled slowly down the drive, as if letting everyone get a good look at its spotless cherry red paint job. The car stopped in front of me. The driver had short, windblown blond hair and wore avi- ator sunglasses. She pulled the emergency brake and grinned at me. For a split second I wondered what the heck Charl- ize Theron was doing in Austin and who she was staring at. I looked behind me, and the only person there was a custodian sweeping up cigarette butts.
I turned back to the woman, who was now sitting on the top of the driver’s seatback with her arms open wide. “There’s my baby girl!”
My phone slipped from my hand and clattered on the side- walk.
Marja.
