The Hipster Chronicles Read online

  “No, you’re right. I can’t blame Milo for my past. He’s never given me a reason to doubt his feelings. I was triggered and acted like a jealous wench. I feel so foolish.”

  “It’s hot on you, babe. Don’t worry.” Milo raised his eyebrows and flashed a wicked grin.

  They shared a private moment of understanding and then he leaned down to whisper something in her ear. Whatever he said made her cheeks flush, a contagious giggle spilling from her smiling lips.

  “Hey, no secrets!” I blurted.

  “Uh, Jane,” Ezra leaned across the coffee table, trying to contain his own laughter. “I think the ganja got to you, sweetheart.”

  I waved a sensationless hand and shook my head. “Not possible. I never touched the stuff.” Every time it circled my way, I was sure to pass it to the left.

  “I think it’s called a contact high, darlin’. I’m feeling pretty mellow myself.” Jasper snaked his arm around Marley and set his heavy eyes on me.

  “Noooo! No way.” I tried to convince myself. But could it be? I was relaxed, uninhibited, and mouthier than ever. “Holy crap. I’m totally high, aren’t I?”

  Everyone broke out in a fit of giggles as if they hadn’t just been whining and crying about their messy love lives. I took a look around the group and smiled. A wave of security and comradery washed over me, and while I was sure the weed had something to do with that—I really didn’t care. We were eight grown, responsible adults—well, most of us were, anyway. While I didn’t usually make a habit of breaking the law, this kind of thing was not uncommon amongst our kind. You know—the artsy millennial. I relished the moment, appreciating that this was exactly the kind of thing I’d been missing from my life. A group of friends who were just as zany as me. Thanks to them, I finally felt as if I belonged.

  I sat back, believing that, while everyone else talked amongst themselves. Ezra hopped over Milo’s legs and wedged himself next to me on the couch. “Someone’s having fun,” he sang, kissing me openly on the mouth. I buried my fingers in his scruff and kissed him back without an ounce of shame. We couldn’t get too carried away, however, because my expertise was still in demand.

  “What about us?” Zander bellowed. “I want to hear what you have to say about me and Paulina.”

  “Dude, I’m not a fortune teller, you know.”

  “Shit, she’s fun when she’s snarky,” Milo chuckled.

  “Yeah, ain’t she cute?” Ezra crinkled his nose and winked.

  A crystal ball would’ve been clutch right about now because I still wasn’t clear on Paulina and Zander’s deal. I glanced at her and noticed she seemed aloof. She and Zander sat only inches apart, but they didn’t touch and she barely made eye contact with him, though he was subtly vying for her attention.

  “I’ll save you the worry, Jane,” she finally said. “His ex came back for him. I don’t even know what he’s still doing here.”

  “Lina,” he pleaded, reaching out to touch her arm. “Why don’t we go somewhere to talk—alone?”

  She spun to face him, and everyone trained their eyes in the couple’s direction. Nosy as hell and on the edge of their seats. I could totally understand Zander’s request for a time out.

  “What’s the difference?” She shrugged. “Everyone’s hashing it all out in the open. Just say it and then go find her. You don’t owe me anything. She’s your soul mate; I’m just the chick with the cupcakes.”

  “Maybe we should give them some space,” Marley announced as she took Jasper’s hand and stood from the couch.

  “No! Stay. I swear, it’s okay. We’re all friends. Everyone’s having a good time. I don’t want to be the buzzkill of the group. I’ll be fine.” Paulina was not convincing; her eyes glistened with unshed tears, her lips turned down at the corners.

  “Here.” Milo offered her what was now left of the community stash.

  She accepted, took a puff, and continued ignoring Zander.

  “What is the deal with the ex?” I asked. I was totally getting a handle on this whole meddling thing.

  “If Paulina would let me explain,” Zander huffed.

  Again, all eyes homed in on him, Paulina’s included. “Floor’s all yours,” she grumbled.

  He scanned the group and threw his hands up in the air. “Oh, fuck it. Why not? If you all must know, Zoe didn’t come back for me. She came back for her cat. She’s not having second thoughts about calling things off, and guess what! Neither am I. She can have the fugly cat. She can go back to Manchester with the entire contents of our apartment if she wants. I’m happy right where I am. I’m happy to have a fresh start. And most of all, Paulina, I’m happy with you.” His voice cracked and the vulnerability in his tone spoke volumes about his sincerity. And I was definitely not the only one to notice.

  Marley clutched her heart, Emmy sighed, and Paulina’s expression turned from hopeless to dreamy. “Really?” she asked in disbelief.

  “Yeah.” Zander nodded.

  That’s all it took for her to fly into his lap and wrap her arms around his neck. “I wasn’t ready to let you go.”

  “Good, because I need holding on to.”

  If this wasn’t a certifiable lovefest, I didn’t know what was. Somehow, each of us had found a match that was right for us, right now. Sure, there were kinks to work out, but what relationship didn’t have them. We were young and there was plenty of time to have fun while we ironed them out. Or worse case, we started over.

  “You seem pretty pleased with yourself,” Ezra said, nuzzling up against me.

  “That’s because I am.”

  “Glad you listened to me and ventured out for this party?” he asked.

  “Mmm hmm.” I was. This whole night was perfection. Ezra and I were ending the summer on a high note, as were the other three couples I now called friends. I felt partly responsible and I had enough material to write an entire urban romance series.

  “You’ve got it all plotted out in that pretty little head of yours, don’t you?” Ezra eyed me over the rim of his glass and finished off the last of his whiskey.

  Embarrassed to admit he already knew me too well, I blinked and adjusted my glasses. I looked around the rooftop. An infusion of culture and diversity was right outside my door at any given moment. It made me realize I was living the life so many women my age only dreamed of. I could travel the world in search of inspiration, but there was no need; I could find it all in this tiny slice of heaven I called home. Hipsters weren’t the only thing Brooklyn had to offer, but I sure was happy it brought me to mine.

  THE END . . . FOR NOW

  Read on for more New York City based fun with a glimpse of Moore to Love, also by Faith Andrews.

  THANK YOU TO all of you who have stood behind me and helped me continue on this amazing journey. Without your love and support, none of this would be possible. It warms my heart and makes me happier than you could ever imagine that you chose this book out of the millions out there. I hope it’ll entice you to check out the rest of them. Thank you again for being part of my book family.

  First and foremost, to my beautiful children, my husband, and my remarkable family and friends. You’ve let the old me explore the world the new me enjoys so much. Having you along for this adventure is just the icing on the cake.

  To the list of ladies who master the art of behind the scenes awesomeness. My thank you list belongs to Trish Mint, Ashley Jasper and Saffron A. Kent for beta reading, Marisa-rose Robyn of Cover Me Darling, LLC for creating this perfectly hip cover, Brenda Letendre of Write Girl Editing for editing, Shawna Gavas of Behind the Writer for proofreading, Christine Borgford of Type A Formatting for formatting, Linda Russell and the entire Foreword PR & Marketing team for everything under the sun, and countless Gotta Have Faithers, author friends, readers, bloggers and pimpers alike for spreading the word. You rock my socks off.

  Thank you, readers, for picking this up and spending time in the pages of my world. I encourage you to leave a review; it’s equivalent to a hug for
the author. If you liked the hipsters, let me know! Shout it out in a message or email—feedback is my favorite! I would love to revisit and continue with all four of these couples, so stay tuned for more from this eclectic bunch and in the meantime, continue reading for an excerpt of my rom com, Moore to Love which also takes place in the greatest city in the world.

  BIG BONED. PLUS-SIZED. JUNK in the trunk. Muffin top. Thunder thighs. Chubster. Fat. I’ve heard it all over the course of my life because, unfortunately, that’s what I am. There’s no two ways around it or my frumpy, jiggly body. I am not the ideal. While the majority of Americans are tipping the scale these days, I’m still not considered the image of flawless beauty and sleek perfection most men desire. How do I know this, you ask? Well, because I’m single. Alone, unloved, unwanted. Twenty-five and on the road to spinsterhood. Heartbreaking, I know. But don’t dwell on it. I don’t. I mean, I guess that’s what I’m doing right now, but that’s only because the bitch in my chair just rudely pointed out the obvious.

  “You have such a pretty face.” I force an unenthusiastic smile, assuming she’ll leave it at that, letting the unspoken words “if you only lost weight” dangle awkwardly between us. But nope. Not this time . . .

  The Barbie doll-looking wench actually takes the liberty to continue. “I bet you could be a model. You know, like for Lane Bryant or, oh!!! What about Hips and Curves? With your cheek bones and trendy style you could . . .” She rambles on and on about my finest qualities, all while sticking it to me about my unavoidable plumpness.

  Nodding and yessing her to death, I go on with my work. Painting her face is effortless. I have a great canvas. Smooth ivory skin, neatly groomed brows, and lips that collagen freaks would pay insane amounts of money for. This chick is everything I wish I was. Blonde, blue-eyed, spunky, beautiful, and most importantly, thin.

  As I brush her lids with a shimmery pink shadow, I allow my insecurities to get the best of me. Thousands of recurring promises to restart a diet, rejoin the gym, and revamp my life jog through my discouraged mind. I’ve been here before. A beautiful girl sits in my chair to be dolled up for a date or a wedding or whatever and I swear to myself I’ll do everything in my power to look more like her.

  But it never works. I don’t have solid motivation. My parents love me as I am—they’re great parents. Great, overweight parents. I’m perfect to them even if I can’t squeeze my ass into a pencil skirt the way I long to. My best friend, Tatum, is the most non-judgmental person in the entire world. She has friends of all races, creeds, and sizes. Her last birthday get-together looked like a meeting between the United Nations and Ringling Brothers. No joke.

  And then there’s me. Don’t get me wrong, I love so many things about my life. My job, my apartment, my family, my friends. Oh, and I have great hair—even if it’s not the color of Goldilocks’ here in my chair. Yes, thank you God for gracing me with a long flowing mane of hazelnut locks, but did you have to give me Mom’s ass and Dad’s sausage fingers? I mean, what do you have against me?

  It’s not God’s fault I’m five foot six and over two hundred and twenty pounds. And I should love myself no matter what. Be proud of my accomplishments and happy for what I do have. Unfortunately, I’m my own worst enemy. Positivity has never been my strong point. And goddamn it, sue me for loving food. I’m Italian. We eat. A lot. It’s a lifestyle. And no amount of burpees or crunches can burn away the nine hundred course meal Mom makes every Sunday without fail. Meatballs, pasta, prosciutto bread. Yum!

  “Hello?” The girl interrupts my drooling. “I think you’re putting on a little too much liner.”

  I have a heavy hand but I know what I’m doing. Her eyes look sick. She should thank me for making the turquoise hue pop even brighter. I step back to appraise what looks like a makeup masterpiece. I’m usually all for what the client wants, but she looks gorgeous and I’d hate to erase what I’ve already done. “Would you mind letting me finish first? I think you’ll really wind up li—”

  “No! I said it’s too much. Tristan hates too much. It’s his birthday and I want to make sure he likes how I look.” She fingers her hair and purses her lips.

  I stop myself from rolling my eyes but try to convince her one more time. “I promise it won’t be too much. In fact, I think your boyfriend will—”

  Miss Prissy Pants releases a haughty laugh, snort and all. “Oh yeah? How would you know? You’re a pretty girl but I don’t see how someone like you would care about impressing anyone else.”

  Whoa. Did she just—? Yeah, she totally went there. I’d love to smack the MAC right off her face, but instead I take a cleansing breath and let it roll off my too-wide shoulders. Kill her with kindness, Leni. The customer’s always right. “Of course. I’m sorry. Let me just grab some remover.” I ignore the vein throbbing at my temple, telling me to get the tweezers and pluck this girl’s brows to smithereens.

  When I return to bitchface she’s staring at herself in the vanity mirror, admiring my work. She likes it. I can tell. Usually when a client is unhappy they avoid the mirror after the first glance. She’s turning her head to see her makeup at every angle. I might not look like her but that doesn’t mean I’m not good at what I do.

  “Um, you sure you don’t want to keep it? If you like it, that’s what matters. Don’t settle for less just to impress your man.” I don’t know what’s come over me or why I’m being so persistent but it has to have something to do with the irony of the situation. She’s drop dead gorgeous, with or without makeup, and yet here she is worried about looking the way her boyfriend prefers. If she’s not secure in her own skin, how can someone like me ever be?

  She takes one more look, focusing her attention on the beautiful mixture of colors I’ve applied to her eyes. I expect her to storm out of my chair and demand a refund or another makeup artist, but to my surprise, she smiles and says, “You know what? You’re right. It does look pretty awesome, if you ask me. Continue. I’m sorry I was such a bitch.”

  And with that, my faith in humanity is restored. It’s not every day someone who looks like her is as nice on the inside as they are on the eyes. I smile back and keep on with my bad self and my mad cosmetology skills.

  “Mom, Dad, Leni? You guys here?” My brother, Reynold, bursts through my parents’ house, bellowing like, well, like Reynold. He’s always making an entrance, no matter what the event. Today just happens to be any other ordinary Sunday dinner, but in true Reynold style he stumbles in like Cosmo Kramer and steals the attention of everyone around him.

  “My baby boy!” Mom runs over to him and squeezes his cheeks. They’re covered in dark, prickly scruff. He’s been growing out his beard and taking the whole men-with-hair-do-it-better movement by the balls. I can’t blame him; it totally suits him. He’s really good looking and, geez, does he know it.

  “Smells good, Ma. What time’s dinner?” He beelines it to the stove and lifts the lid off the big pot to take a peek.

  Mom scurries over and slaps his hand. “Leave it! And don’t touch the bread. Your sister already ate half a loaf. Save some for dinner.”

  “Leni, I thought you were doing the no carb thing. What happened, babe?” Reynold sits next to me at the kitchen table, kissing my round cheek and punching me in the arm.

  “I tried but carbs make me happy. Sorry not sorry.”

  “No, Leni! Carbs are the enemy. I gave you the list of the good ones. Come on! We’ve been over this a million times. Cut them out and you’ll see a huge difference.”

  Leave it to my younger, in shape, muscular brother, to try to school me in the weight loss department. I know he means well and he has a point, but I’m not in the mood. “Can we not today? Please? For once? I just want to enjoy my pasta and my loaf of bread and be left alone.” I had a rough morning—as in I ripped a pair of my favorite leggings pulling them up over my bubble butt—and I’m in desperate need of food therapy. Believe me, I know how ridiculous that sounds, but fuck off.

  “Suit yourself, but you’ll w
ant to up your game soon,” he sings, wiggling in his chair like he used to when he was a kid with an entertaining story to tell.

  “And why’s that?” I prod, wondering what the hell he’s up to.

  “Where’s Dad? I wanted to wait for dinner to tell you guys, but I’m too excited.”

  “In the living room watching the game. Dad! Come in here, the Golden Child has news!” I holler in the direction of the den, envisioning Dad’s huff as he hauls himself off the couch.

  My father enters the kitchen, rubbing his beer belly. “This better be good. The Jets are finally coming back. Josie, can you grab me another cold one?”

  My mom does as asked—good Italian wife that she is—and then joins us at the table to pet and adore her wonderful son. “So, what’s up, Rey?”

  “Yeah, what does any of your news have to do with me abandoning my beloved carbs?” I ask, curiosity eating away at me. I wish it would eat away ten pounds while it’s at it.

  “This!” Reynold pulls a black, velvet box from his pocket and slams it down on the table. He opens the square with a tiny squeak and a two-carat, princess cut diamond ring glistens under the light of Mom’s Tiffany chandelier like a Baby-Jesus-in-the-manger miracle.

  Mom gasps. “Oh, my baby boy! How wonderful! When? How? What can I cook?”

  I shake my head. Now do you see why my life revolves around food? My mother’s had a menu set in her head for everything from our baptisms to the day I got my first period.

  “Calm your buns, Ma. I haven’t figured out how I’m going to ask her yet, but I’ll probably do it tonight. I can’t hold on to this thing knowing it’s not on her finger.” My brother’s face beams with happiness. Reynold’s been dating his girlfriend, Ashley, for three years now. I’m certain she was designed with my brother in mind. Not only are they perfect for each other, but she fits in with our family, too. We all love her. She’s a doll—like a real, live, blow up doll. Not the slutty kind, the flawless from head to toe kind. No, Ashley’s gorgeous, sexy, smart, refined. I want to hate her for it, but I can’t because she’s the sister I never had. Besides Tatum, of course.