Milkrun by Sarah Mlynowski

psychoanalysis, he’s become more of the how-does-it-make-you-feel and listen-tome-recite-clichés type of guy.
    I hear Bev’s voice in the background. “Tim, is that Fern? Can I talk to her?”
    â€œBev wants to say hello. Love you, bye.” He passes off the phone.
    It’s far too early in the morning to talk to Bev. It’s not that I don’t like her. I do, really. I just have a few minor issues with her. Bev is a fanatic; she’s addicted to talk shows. Specifically Oprah. And instead of working like a modern woman in the twenty-first century, her calling herself a part-time travel agent is a euphemism for “she plans her own vacations.” When she’s not traveling, she spends all her time watching Oprah , doing Oprah makeovers, and cooking low-fat meals from Oprah’s recipe book. Verbs like share and discover are too often combined in her speech pattern with nouns like soul and self.
    â€œHi, Fern. How’s your spirit?”
    â€œMy spirit’s fine, thanks. How’s yours?”
    â€œWonderful, wonderful. Quite phenomenal. How’s therapy going?”
    â€œGreat.” Bev has convinced my father to give me seventy-five dollars a week for one-hour therapy sessions. She’s convinced that kids never get over divorce and that my sudden move to Boston might throw me over the edge. The money has been very therapeutic so far; I’ve bought new sunglasses and my hooker boots, and I’m saving up for a CD player for my car.
    â€œSo what have you learned about yourself this week?”
    â€œNot much,” I answer. It’s way too early for psychoanalytical babble. “What’s up with you?”
    â€œOh, the usual. Power walking. Writing in my gratitude journal.”
    I refuse to ask her what a gratitude journal is.
    â€œAnd I just read the most amazing book last week,” she says. “I’m sure you’d love it.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œOh, um…um. It’s about an underprivileged girl who was a victim of incest. Gosh, I don’t remember the name, but the story hit home.”
    I don’t quite see the relation between the unidentified novel’s protagonist and my Manhattan-born stepmother, who spends Saturday at the hairdresser, Sunday at the manicurist, and Monday through Friday at the mall when not watching Oprah. However, we’ve never quite reached the level of intimacy that would allow me to point that out. “Let me know the name of the book when you remember it, and I’ll buy it, okay? I gotta go now.”
    â€œOkay, bye. Remember your spirit.”
    â€œOf course.” I hang up the phone and fall back asleep.
    When I wake up at 1:30, I have my first coherent thought. It’s 1 A.B. (After Breakup), and I have already kindled a relationship with my future husband.
    I may have a date. Soon.
    Yay!
    With Jonathan Gradinger. The thing is, once we get married, I’ll have to stop referring to him by his full name. I’d sound like a character in a Jane Austen novel: “Good morning, Mr. Gradinger. Please pass the newspaper, Mr. Gradinger.”
    Why hasn’t he called yet?
    I’ll admit I’m being a bit crazy. According to Swingers, he has to wait at least three days. Or is it five days? How am I going to wait five days?
    I must call Wendy.
    I dial her number at work. How pathetic is that? It’s Saturday afternoon and I don’t even bother trying her apartment.
    â€œWendy speaking.”
    â€œHi!”
    â€œHello,” she says. I hear her rummaging through some papers. “So? How was it?”
    â€œWonderful. I’m completely over Jeremy.”
    â€œSure you are,” she says. Do I detect sarcasm?
    â€œI am. I ran into my future husband.”
    â€œThat’s good. Do I get to be the maid of honor?”
    â€œNo. You can be a bridesmaid. Iris made me swear she’d be the maid of honor. But you can plan the bachelorette