Notes from the Backseat. Jody Gehrman
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go to college these days. She’s the Vanna White of yoga. She’ll be a has-been before her time. Sad, really.”
“You’re right,” she said. “Who cares about stupid old Dannika Winters? She’s no threat to me.”
I clapped my hands. “Exactly! She’s Coop’s friend, you’re his girlfriend. Period.”
Her face fell. “Wait a minute. What if he’s leaving something out? Suppose they’re more like…friends with benefits?”
“Right. Because he’d definitely want to be trapped in a car for sixteen hours with his girlfriend and the chick he’s doing it with on the side.”
She cocked her head. “I guess you’re right. That would be pretty masochistic of him.”
I reached down and gathered the chokers up, then tried to return them to a display shaped like a woman’s throat and shoulders, sculpted in soft, sensual lines out of some sort of pale, opalescent material that made me think of the inner sheen of abalone shells. She took the necklaces from me when she saw my inept attempts to arrange them on the display and, with expert fingers, draped them in provocative shapes across the throat and clavicle, setting off the imitation rubies and sapphires so that they looked like they belonged in Tiffany’s.
“I like Coop a lot,” I said, looking her in the eye. “More importantly, I think you like him a lot. This is no time to pull your classic three-month guy freak-out thing.”
She shook her head. “I’m not doing that. I swear.”
For as long as I’d known her, Gwen had been living out the same pattern with men, repeating her mistakes over and over like a scratched record. She’d date a guy, get to know him, start to like him, then as soon as they hit the three-month mark, she’d dump him. Like clockwork. And always for the same reason: she was convinced he would, if given the chance, cheat on her. A couple years ago she dumped this incredibly hunky USC sociology professor when she saw the line of perky little coeds loitering outside his office. Another time she gave a Swedish chiropractor the boot because he kept unused toothbrushes in his bathroom for overnight guests. Sometimes, all a guy had to do was glance over her shoulder at an attractive woman walking in the door and Gwen would instantly relegate him to the Tomb of Boyfriends Past.
What it came down to, really, was that Gwen had serious jealousy issues. She knew it, I knew it, every guy she’d ever gone out with knew it. The thought that Coop might end up as another casualty in Gwen’s mysterious war against potential infidelity made me ache with sadness. It wasn’t just because I’d seen her pull the same old trick so many times it was dizzying. No, it was more than that. If Gwen dumped Coop or drove him away with her compulsive suspicions, it would be more than just annoying this time. It would be tragic. Because I knew, in that weird, bone-deep way that best friends sometimes do, that Gwen and Coop were made for each other.
Just like Gwen and I, Gwen and Coop were opposites on the surface. He was a big guy; that was what you noticed about him first. Next to Gwen’s petite, five-foot-two frame, his six-feet-and-then-some looked even more hulking by contrast. He wore old, ratty T-shirts and paint-splattered jeans. His hair was long and usually looked neither washed nor combed. He was a carpenter—a woodworker. He made furniture in his basement that was rough and solid and vaguely bohemian, like him. But the thing I liked best about Coop was the warmth in his rich, hazel eyes. When you looked into his face, you could sense the vast, sun-drenched landscape that lived inside him and all the room he had in there for lost souls. I feared he might be the only man on the planet capable of handling my best friend’s fragile, skittish little heart.
“Look at it this way,” I said. “Coop and Dannika have been friends since college, right? They’ve probably known each other—what? Seven, eight years?”
She nodded, frowning.
“If they haven’t gotten together in all that time, they must not have chemistry. I mean, otherwise, they’d have at least given it a go, right?”
“Riiight,” she said, drawing out the word in a way that implied she wasn’t convinced.
“You know how it is. Sometimes you’re just not attracted to someone, no matter how hot they are. I bet it’s like that with them. They’re like brother and sister—absolutely no fizz.”
“Or maybe it’s more like seven years of foreplay,” she grumbled. “By the time they get it on, the simultaneous orgasm will probably blind them.”
I laughed. “Stop being neurotic. Do you hear me? Coop is crazy about you.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
She pulled off one of her gloves and fretted with it. “The thing is, if I go on this trip, he’s going to see how wiggy-jealous I get. He just will. There’s no way around it.”
She looked so small and vulnerable, I wanted to put my arms around her. “Gwen, it’s not the end of the world if he sees you at your worst. He’s probably not going to run screaming just because you’re human. Be honest with him. You’ve got nothing to lose.”
“I’ve got Coop to lose!” she pouted. “Not to mention my pride.”
“Yes, I know, but if you can’t be yourself with him, there’s really nothing there worth saving.”
She replaced her clip-on earring and forced a brave smile. “You’re right. I’m being stupid. I’ll go on this trip, meet his friends, everyone will love me, I’ll love them, and we’ll all live happily ever after.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Now, can you please help me find some clothes that don’t make me look cheap, dumpy or American? I realized today I can’t possibly meet Jean-Paul’s parents in my Mickey Mouse T-shirt.”
“What?” she gasped. “Confirmed slob seeks flattering attire?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. “Whatever. Just, can we get this over with?”
An hour later, Gwen had found me three versatile, elegant, wrinkle-proof outfits that made my thighs look slimmer, my bones more pronounced and my split ends fashionably intentional. She’s a genius. I tried to force my credit card on her, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
As we were hugging goodbye, I got my brilliant idea.
“Listen,” I said. “I’ve got something for you. Wait here.” I ran out to my car, checked the meter, and grabbed the little journal from my plastic Rite Aid bag. Then I dashed back to Gwen’s store and pressed it into her hands.
“What’s this?” She looked at it and then at me with a quizzical expression.
“Take it with you on your trip. If you start to feel anxious or threatened or even slightly inclined to dump Coop, just write out your thoughts until you calm down, okay?”
She laughed uneasily. “Is this some sort of New Age therapy?”
“It’ll give you some perspective, that’s all.”
“Okay. Well, thanks. It’s…really nice.”
“It’s a going away present.”
Her eyes searched mine. “Diaries have never been my style, but I’ll give it a try.”
“If it doesn’t work within the first ten pages,” I said, “invest in some Valium.”
Thirteen days later, the journal arrived at Jean-Paul’s parents’ house in Paris, wrapped in plain brown paper. It wasn’t alone, though. There were three others: a tiny spiral-bound notebook, a legal pad and a slick journal with whales on the cover that said Mendocino Coast. Every page had been filled with Gwen’s old-fashioned, elegantly loopy cursive. As I flipped though them, I saw that sometimes her perfect handwriting gave way to harsh, nearly-illegible scribbles and in places it looked like she’d pressed so hard into the paper that it threatened to tear.
I pretended I wasn’t feeling