Skinny Bitch in Love by Kim Barnouin Page A

saying, a forkful of pad thai on the way to her mouth.
    Once a month, Elizabeth and I took turns having a “your world/my world” lunch to keep in touch, since those two worlds didn’t often collide except for family functions. Last month was her world, which meant having an uninspired fruitsalad in her stodgy law firm’s cafeteria while listening to her and a colleague talk shop. This month was my world, so Elizabeth, in her severe suit and dull pumps, sat beside me on a bench in Palisades Park, having vegan pad thai from my favorite Asian-Fusion truck.
    “God, this is good,” she said, fork in mouth.
    Elizabeth might be uptight, but she appreciated good food, even if it was vegan, which she gave up a zillion years ago. When she was thirteen, Elizabeth had her first hamburger with an incredulous “I can’t believe you’ve never had a hamburger” friend at In-N-Out Burger. She came home and informed our parents she was now a carnivore. She took it for granted that they’d respect her choice to be who she was (which, of course, they did), and that was that. At the time, I was annoyingly militant about being a vegan and tried my best to make her feel as gross as I thought she was for going to the dark side. She’d ignored me and often brought home burgers and lobster rolls to eat in front of me while smacking her lips. When I went off the rails that one summer, she’d said “Ha, told you!” ten times a day. I Ha ’d right back at her, pointing out zits on my once-clear forehead and how I’d had to drop out of training for a 10K because I was such a slug, but she’d claimed she felt perfectly fine and always had. Elizabeth did have amazing skin. And worked twelve-hour days and then hit the gym for an hour every other night. She got lucky, that’s all.
    From the looks of us, you’d never know we were sisters, unless you noticed we had the same color green-hazel eyes. I looked like our dad, blond and tall. Elizabeth was a dead ringerfor our mother, except my sister’s chestnut-brown hair was cut in a very clean bob, whereas our mom’s hair was down to her waist and graying. And I don’t think our mother ever wore a suit. Our differences aside, Elizabeth and I had always been close, even though she was four years older and lived to be conventional. In our house, that made her a rebel.
    As we’d waited in line at the truck, I hit her up for information about ordinances and regulations about huge signs on commercial buildings, and she knew all about websites to check for size regulations and other arcane details about petitions and offending neighbors and potentially hurting small businesses. Of course, the minute she heard I was talking about The Silver Steer, she said she and Doug, her fiancé, were already on a waiting list for opening night.
    “You’re a million miles away, Clem,” she said, taking a sip of her iced tea. “Are you worried about your new initiatives? I can help you with a business plan. Did you—”
    “Business is great, actually,” I said as a guy on a skateboard almost ran over my foot. “The cooking class is going better than I expected, and I’m sure the students will be word-of-mouth spreaders. And I got two calls this morning about the personal chef and private lessons side, so right now, it’s all good.”
    “Right now,” she repeated. “You probably have, what, a thousand bucks left in the bank?”
    Ha. Mucho more, actually, thanks to my ex-boyfriend and my new frugality, ever since I no longer had a steady paycheck. Between that and the money that would come in here and there from the personal chef stuff and the nextsession of cooking classes, I could make a real go of being my own boss.
    “Elizabeth, I’m fine. Trust me. Okay?”
    She raised one eyebrow and peered at me. “Okay, fine. But if you need money, ask. Got it?”
    “Got it.” We stood up, took last sips of our iced tea, and threw our boxes and bags away. “And thanks.” She might be bossy, but she