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I drove past multicolored constellations of Christmas lights and turned on the radio only to be assaulted by cheesy Christmas songs. I switched the stereo to a playlist I’d created called Bad Girls. Meredith Brooks’s song “b***h” came on—an oldie but a goodie. I cranked it up and scream-sang the lyrics.
Where the f**k does Conor get off telling my family that we’re moving in together, much less getting married? As if! Not that I have anything against marriage, but I am so not ready, even though I’m now thirty. Why can’t things just stay the way they are?
Gin Wigmore’s “Devil in Me” came on as I turned onto my street. But I didn’t pull into my driveway. I didn’t even stop in front of my house.
Instead, I cruised on past, turned north onto Central, then east on Camelback until I found
