The Book: Chapter 2
Chapter 2 of the fictional book I am writing is complete! Here is the first page of chapter 2. To read the first page of chapter 1, click here.
In true Hilary fashion, immediately after I hung up the phone there was a knock at my door. I muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me” and drug myself out of bed. I picked up off the floor and threw on the overtly sexy black satin Frederick’s of Hollywood robe that Hilary and Reagan unabashedly teased me about whenever I packed it for one of our girls’ weekends. Making my way through the living room and then to the door, I peered through the peephole. I was met only with a Starbucks cup being franticly wove around on the other side of the door.
Figuring that early morning robbers skip niceties like bringing their victim a grande nonfat Chai tea latte, I decided to open the door. The door barely an inch open, I was met with a squeal of “This is the greatest thing to ever happen!” from Reagan. A pop culture junkie, Reagan lived to follow celebrity news, much of which often unfolded on the couch on Piper Clayton’s set. Given her intense fascination with all things celebrity gossip, the amusement shuddering through Reagan’s persona over the thought that her best friend was about to be a source of said gossip was palpable.
“Why don’t you look more excited Abbs?” she innocently asked.
Mulling over the real reason why I couldn’t bring myself to the level of sheer excitement everyone else thought was necessary in this moment, I instead responded, “Probably because it’s 5:30 in the morning, Reagan. You know that I’m not a morning person.”
“I know, I know. That’s why I brought you this,” she said as she slipped the warm Starbucks cup into my hand.
For her silver spoon upbringing, Reagan had a heart of gold. She was considerate to the point that she was often taken advantage of. When a crisis struck in your personal life, she was the first friend you would turn to. Dialing her number, you’d quickly be met by her reassuring voice and her nonjudgmental reasoning telling you that everything would be ok, and no, you weren’t an idiot for letting him back into your life for the umpteenth time. Shortly thereafter, she’d be at your house, her kind brown eyes sympathizing with whatever personal tragedy was unfolding in your life. For these reasons, in this moment of exhaustion and nervousness over the reality that I was about to spill all about my life on national TV, Reagan’s sudden early morning presence at my door was welcomed.
I moved aside from the door as Reagan marched into my apartment to begin the task she was sent by Hilary to complete. With her impeccable fashion sense, Reagan ultimately trashed all of the law school admissions letters she received to follow the more obvious career route of becoming a stylist. She moved to Los Angeles shortly after graduating from GSC and began work as a wardrobe consultant for a teeny bopper drama on a major cable network. The second person, after my dad, that I called when my agent broke the news that I landed the coveted national college football sideline reporting job was Reagan. Not only did I want to share the news with my best friend, but I wanted her to be my fashion consultant. She happily obliged and I must say that without her, I would not have been named one of America’s best dressed celebrities this year.
Steps behind Reagan, who zoomed into my bedroom to begin sifting through my closet, I grabbed my suitcase from its usual resting place in the living room. During college football season, my schedule is hectic to the point that when I get home from the airport, I rarely have the energy to wheel my suitcase all of the way into my bedroom, let alone unpack it. Not only does my job require me to fly to and report at Saturday’s game of the week, but I often fly to various campuses earlier in the week to tape special features on players, coaches or entire programs. Not only has my job given me the opportunity to travel to fun cities and meet interesting people, but it has also allowed me to become a master packer. I can amazingly fit up to six outfit choices with matching shoes into a carry-on bag. If this career doesn’t pan out, I know that there’s an opportunity for me to be a personal suitcase coordinator to other heavily traveled individuals.
Wheeling my carry-on bag down the hallway, it was clear that Reagan already explored and conquered my closet. “So, I’m thinking red Diane, white Tory and black Elie all need to be packed”—as in my red Diane von Furstenberg, white Tory Burch and black Elie Tahari dresses—she yelled down the hall. Reagan’s habit of referring to fashion designers on a first-name basis, like they were old pals we’d invite out to happy hour, always amused me.
Giggling to myself as I arrived to my bedroom and saw nearly my entire closet sprawled out across my unmade bed, I said, “Throw in blue Nanette for good measure.”
A big grin grew across Reagan’s face and she quietly but assuredly said, “Girl, you are finally getting some fashion sense.” Skeptically eying my carry-on bag, she then said, “I don’t think all of this is going to fit in there, though.”
“You have no idea what I am capable of, Reagan Brand.”