A hilarious and painfully relatable debut novel about two thirtysomething best friends’ messy search for connection and love in New York, perfect for fans of Rebecca Serle, Gabrielle Zevin, and Dolly Alderton.Sometimes friendship can be its own love story.Victor and Zoey are getting old, well old-er, and it’s beginning to be a real problem.Best friends for a decade, they have seen each other through bad dates and office drama, late nights and hungover brunches, during their years together in New York City.As their wild twenties come to a close, though, the dynamic between the two is shifting. Coming off a tough breakup, Victor dedicates his energies toward building a career writing celebrity profiles for one of the last glossy magazines left, while Zoey navigates the terrain at her nascent fashion startup, questioning her future with her fiancé. The friends and acquaintances in their orbit—authors, influencers, “It girls”—are also searching for a sense of belonging, amidst anxieties and self-doubt.But when tragedy befalls Victor, his once unbreakable bond with Zoey really starts to crack. They find themselves ignoring their ongoing text thread and pushing away what might be the most meaningful relationship of their lives. An immersive, hilarious, and heartbreaking story, this is a debut novel about best friendship, finding yourself, and realizing growing up has as much to do with the person you were as it does with the person you are desperately trying to become.
I picked up an Us Weekly while the guy rang me up.
Paparazzi photos of Cameron Diaz now depressed me. They made me think about what once was, the passage of time. Leave the woman alone! She did what we wanted for decades; now she just wants to hang out with her Good Charlotte husband and do some gardening and enjoy a glass of sauvignon blanc. Why couldn't we all just agree to stop taking pictures of her "entering a doctor's appointment in West Hollywood" or "meeting gal pals for brunch in Montecito"? Why were we all so disgusting?
That train of thought was the last memory I had from the night.
I picked up an Us Weekly while the guy rang me up.
Paparazzi photos of Cameron Diaz now depressed me. They made me think about what once was, the passage of time. Leave the woman alone! She did what we wanted for decades; now she just wants to hang out with her Good Charlotte husband and do some gardening and enjoy a glass of sauvignon blanc. Why couldn't we all just agree to stop taking pictures of her "entering a doctor's appointment in West Hollywood" or "meeting gal pals for brunch in Montecito"? Why were we all so disgusting?
That train of thought was the last memory I had from the night.
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