Wicked Jealous: A Love Story Read Online Free Page B

smelled like one of those Christmas tree air fresheners, even though there wasn’t one in it, it was such a brave choice and so totally Nicola that I couldn’t help but love it. Especially since my car—a used blue Saab—was in the shop even more than hers. “This is all so
Pretty in Pink
I can’t
stand
it!” she squealed.
    I turned to her. “Okay, (a) you’re insane, and (b) why is it
Pink
ish?”
    “Because Jason is sort of like Blaine. You know, preppy; maybe not whip smart, but cute. . . . He even looks a little like Andrew McCarthy if you were to put a hand over one eye. . . . And you’re funky-with-a-love-of-cool-vintage- clothes Andi!”
    I rolled my eyes. “I think you’ve been huffing Magic Markers. There is nothing
Pretty in Pink
about this. Especially because last time I watched the movie, Molly Ringwald was a size zero.”
    “It so is!” she cried. “The way he crossed the room—not to mention all social boundaries—to approach you . . .”
    I shook my head. “He was sitting in the row behind me and he saw Josh Rosen whack me in the head. Because he’s not a complete sociopath, he wanted to make sure I didn’t die right in front of him.”
    She cocked her head. “What do you think of dyeing your hair red like Molly’s? I totally think you could pull it off.”
    “Okay, that’s enough. There will be no hair dyeing and no more insane talk about some popular guy liking me,” I said firmly. “We have much more important things to discuss.” As we pulled into the driveway, my stomach sank at the sight of a powder-blue BMW convertible. “Like the fact that Hillary is at my house in the middle of the afternoon.”
    There were a lot of things you could say about my father’s girlfriend Hillary—like, say, she wouldn’t eat or shop anywhere that wasn’t
Elle
- or
In Style
–approved—but because she was incredibly ambitious, she did work her butt off. Like just as hard as my dad, which meant that her leaving the office before eight o’clock on a weekday was almost unheard of—unless it was for a screening or work-related drinks or dinner. Her official title was Senior VP, Production, at LOL Films. (“That stands for Laugh Out Loud,” she had explained to me, “but as a Millennial, you’re probably aware of that.”) But really, Hillary was what was known in the film and TV business as a D-girl. D-girl was short for “development girl,” which meant that she spent her time having meals with agents and managers trying to find the next script or idea that would become a hit movie that was so successful that McDonald’s ended up making Happy Meal toys based on it.
    She and Dad had met when his agent had forced him to unchain himself from his computer and go to her office to pitch her some ideas that might be right for movies. While she didn’t like any of the ideas (a cat in a girl’s body who goes through sorority rush, an elephant in a cop’s body who is forced to spend twenty-four hours with a turtle in a prisoner’s body, and other animal-in-human-body combinations) she did like Dad.
    In the six months they’d been dating, I’d only seen her about five times, and every time she talked about her job and managed to work in the “30 Under 30” thing over and over
.
Other than grilling me about what kind of movies I liked (“You know, Simone, as a Millennial, your demographic is
so
important!”), she didn’t ask me anything about myself other than asking my dad—
right in front of me
—if he had ever looked into any of the fat camps that were advertised in the back section of the
New York Times Magazine
. Nicola was convinced that underneath her big job, flat stomach, and killer wardrobe, Hillary was probably deeply unhappy, but I wasn’t sure about that.
    As we got out of the car, a U-Haul arrived. “And a moving truck just pulled up,” I said nervously.
    As the front door opened, Hillary came
click-clack
ing out in her Gucci snakeskin stilettos, holding her