If you’ve made it to this page, I’m so excited for you to read this book!
I’ve selected some previews to give you a taste of how Teppi and Crindi face the challenges ahead of them together.
I’d rate them at .5 on a scale of 10 for spoiler potential, so you may want to skip if even that’s too much. But only hints of the plot are revealed, and no characters are mentioned whom you haven’t already met.
(And believe me, there are some real characters you’re going to love.)
. . .
I was wearing clothes that actually fit for the first time.
And I was looking rather stylish. Not Crindi-fashion-photo-shoot stylish, but at least I no longer looked like a try-hard little sister.
There was a knock on the door. Our regular morning pop-in from Ollie, no doubt. I opened it and she stepped into our bright, cozy flat that smelled of fresh flowers and toasted crumpets.
Ollie was in her gray security-service uniform, black boots shining, trousers and zipped jacket pressed and crisp. Her work bun, as she called it, was already coming undone and wisps of fine, red hair were starting to spill over her ears and the pale white skin of her cheeks.
“And how are the lovely residents of number fourteen doin’ on this fine day?”
“Gopple and corning!” I smiled at her triumphantly.
I was working on my Cockney rhyming slang since Ollie had given me a crash course in it. I thought I was rather getting the hang of it.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
“‘It’s a good morning.’ It is totally obvious.”
“Ya can’t make up nonsense words, Tep. I’m givin’ that one a negative five. Yer gettin’ worse. It should be like, ‘copper gave a warning’ or ‘mopping up the flooring.’ Ha! Right off the top of my loaf of bread. Plus ten for me.” She directed her attention to Crindi, who was finishing our lunches. “She’s lookin’ almost presentable for her first day of work. Well done, girl. Couldn’t have been easy, given what you’ve got to work with.”
“Working with me is… spicy meat bun.” I protested.
“Now you got it! That’s ace. But you also aren’t that fun.” Ollie gave me one of her gentle slaps on the back, which was hard enough to knock the wind out of me if I wasn’t ready for it. “More of a pain in the arse than anything.”
. . .
It wasn’t long after the reset button was pushed in cozy flat fourteen that Crindi called our first family meeting.
I was still trying to be on my best behavior, so I kept an open mind, even though my experience with such meetings was that they were fairly pointless.
The only meetings I’d ever experienced with my family usually started with a few rounds of passive-aggressive sniping between me and my sisters.
During this part, my mother would cross her arms and roll her eyes, which we always thought was a bit rude. After one or two minutes, she would give my father a look and he’d use his voice of authority—loud, slow, and irritated—to explain exactly how things were going to be done.
Then we’d ignore it and race off to find something else to fight about. It was great fun. But not the most effective use of time I’d ever encountered.
Still, Crindi was serious about it, so I was, too. Some people might have mistaken these meetings for casual conversations between flatmates, but no. Two people with no blood relation sitting at a table with serious expressions was, by her definition, still a family meeting. She liked to say, “two people make a family,” which undoubtedly came from her grandma.
It was like she was trying to get something important right, and family meetings were on the best-practices task list. She even wrote up some ground rules for us to follow. Really mystifying stuff like:
“Assume positive intent.” (I had to look up every one of those words in the dictionary Crindi gave me, and I still didn’t understand what they meant when they were all strung together.)
“Listen with an open heart.” (I thought this one was a little graphic before she explained it.)
And “always remember this is a safe space.” (Whatever in Hades that’s supposed to mean.)
We started having meetings about all kinds of flatmate things.
Like the sacred right to one’s own toothbrush, plus the principals of “mine” and “yours” for good measure.
We had a serious meeting about toilet-cleaning protocols, with a live demonstration. For some reason, we did this one twice, with me going through the steps the second time under Crindi’s sharp gaze.
Also, one that repeated more often than seemed necessary, the amount of beer that was reasonable for a four-foot, nine-inch tall, seventy-five-pound woman to drink.
(For the sophisticated residents of the British Isles, where bodyweight is calculated as multiples of large rocks, that’s about five-and-a-half stone.)
At least they were better than the sisters-only meetings I used to attend, which involved screaming, hair pulling, and snubbing each other for a week.
. . .
It was harder to curb my sarcasm. I had to learn the hard way that sarcasm wielded against the wrong target will slice a heart to pieces.
In other words, in my early days of speaking, I hurt Crindi’s feelings severely more than once.
I’d never lived with someone who didn’t have a thick husk of indifference encasing their feelings. And definitely not with a person who wore her delicate heart on the outside of her bright yellow cardigans, and who had that positive intent outlook I keep bringing up because it describes her so well.
Someone who had cared so much about me that she’d pushed herself to passing out on the cold, hard tile of the bathroom floor.
Once I began talking, all of the sarcastic comments I’d been silently thinking lined up to be spit out verbally at the perfect opportunity, which Crindi provided every other day or so.
After each of these incidents, and seeing the look on her face, I instantly felt wretched. Since my mouth was structurally incapable of forming the words “I’m sorry” in any language, an entire day would be wrecked until the restart of a night’s sleep.
Sleeping in the same bed saved our friendship.
When you’re burning with shame, it’s very hard to climb into bed with someone who has a wounded heart. The hurt radiates off of them in waves. It’s a just punishment for your sin, and makes you never want to experience it again.
But the bed also allowed me to apologize.
I would move my shoulder microscopically closer to Crindi’s, so the fabric of our pajamas brushed together. It was all I was capable of doing during that period of my life. Fortunately, she knew what I was trying to say and would move her shoulder microscopically closer in return.
I’d think a prayer to Bes to grant us good dreams, and to Tutu to protect us from bad ones, as we fell asleep.
In the morning, Crindi would smile one of her radiant smiles at me.
And we’d start over.
. . .
She wasn’t filling in the holes. I tightened my grip on her arms and pulled her gloved hands from her face. “Tell me.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“You don’t—” Her voice broke. “You don’t want to hear my dumb problems.”
“Yes I do. I’m your—” I could do this. “I’m your very best friend.”
. . .
If you’re from England, you’re going to want to skip this next part.
I’m as serious as a burnt crumpet.
I’ve been trying to accommodate my British readers.
Kind of trying.
OK, not trying very hard, but doing my best.
I’ve been throwing in words like “fortnight.” Tossing around an occasional metric measurement. Even using your preferred body-part names, like “arse,” all for you.
But now I’m going to undo every single bit of that goodwill.
This troubles me deeply, but the truth sometimes hurts, and I’m about to speak some hurtful truths about your grand and glorious past.
I honestly think it would be best if you’d bid me “Ta-ta!” and cheerio off to the next chapter and we’ll pick up our mutually respectful dialogue there and pretend this part never happened.
If you do choose to forge ahead, then try not to do any damage to the whole “stiff upper lip” mythology that the rest of the world imagines is true.
In other words, no whinging.
You’ve been warned.
. . .
Crindi was better at cleaning than me, so maybe she would…?
“You’re the driver, which means you’re in charge. The driver is responsible for whatever happens in the car. Like a ship captain. I’m just a passenger.” She shrugged. “I’d help, but that’s the rule in America. I don’t want to cheat you out of your driver duties.”
That didn’t sound right. I’d heard in the UK that Americans loved being in charge, but they always expected everyone else to clean up their messes.
Also: Who was this girl?
. . .
What are you waiting for?!
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Note: The three extra stories and author comments are found only in the Select Edition eBook or the Select Edition Collection.
Thanks for your interest in my first book! I wrote it with you in mind. I know you’ll enjoy it.
~ S. A. Weigle