Dedication by Emma McLaughlin, Nicola Kraus

From the Publisher

What if your ex was famous and adored by millions? What would you do if you had one chance to make him regret his entire existence? How much would you risk?

Kate Hollis's ex-boyfriend's face plasters newsstands and TV, the Internet, and the multiplex. Jake Sharpe is one of the biggest recording stars on the planet, and every song he's famous for is about Kate. For over a decade his soundtrack has chased her — from the gym to the supermarket, from the dentist's office to the bars. Now thirty-year-old Kate gets the call that Jake has finally landed back in their Vermont hometown for an MTV special. The moment she has been waiting for has arrived.

On the eve of their prom, Jake Sharpe vanished, resurfacing when his song "Losing" — about his and Kate's first sexual experience — shot to the top of the Billboard charts. And the hits kept coming, each more personal than the one before.

Now Kate gets her chance to confront Jake and reclaim her past. But after eleven years of enduring protracted and far-from-private heartbreak, everyone in Kate's life has a stake in how this plays out. Kate must risk betraying the friends Jake abandoned, the bandmates whose songs he plundered, and her own parents, who fear this will dredge up a shared past more painful than any of them want to acknowledge. But after getting the call in the dead of night and jumping on a plane, can she turn back now?

Newsweek dubbed The Nanny Diaries "a national phenomenon" and the New Republic proclaimed, "Thank God for Citizen Girl." Now McLaughlin and Kraus have written a poignant, humorous tale about modern celebrity obsession and coming of age during thedivorce boom. With flawless depictions of the 1980s, a charismatic heroine, and their signature biting wit, the authors offer up another lively and hilarious tale of a smart young woman looking for satisfaction in the chaos of contemporary culture.

Publishers Weekly

The team behind The Nanny Diariesand Citizen Girlreturns with another breezy chick lit portrayal of a woman wronged and, eventually, empowered. When Kate Hollis's childhood chum Laura calls from their Vermont hometown and announces the arrival of Jake Sharpe, a mega rock star and Kate's high school sweetheart, Kate jumps on a plane from Charleston, S.C. (where she's a sustainable development consultant) and makes for idyllic Croton Falls. Through it's been 13 years, Kate still has a primal need to confront not only the boy who abandoned her before the senior prom, but the musical pirate who used her personal life as fodder for his most celebrated songs and cheated his high school bandmates out of deserved recognition and royalties. Chapters switch back and forth between the present and the pivotal middle and high school years where Kate (then Katie) and Jake did the first-love thing: readers get to see Jake's growing he's-just-not-that-into-you-ness and how (surprise!) their Zima-fueled love (it was the '90s) was idealized. While one spends much of the book wanting to shout at Kate to give it up, go back to Charleston and get on with it, McLaughlin and Kraus do get the nagging need for closure in even the shallowest relationships comically right. (June)

Andrea Y. Griffith - Library Journal

The film version of McLaughlin and Kraus's first novel, The Nanny Diaries, opens April 20; now comes their well-timed third novel. So far, the duo has exposed the underground world of New York nannies and satirized corporate America. What's left? How about a statement on celebrity culture and obsession? Enter 30-year-old Kate Hollis, a successful career woman who can't seem to shake her high school boyfriend. Why? The ex-boyfriend is Jake Sharpe, America's hottest musician, and his every no. 1 hit is a commentary on Kate and their relationship. When Jake shows up in their hometown after having abruptly left 13 years ago, right before the senior prom, Kate, too, comes home, finally confronting her ex and moving on with her life. Alternating between the present showdown and Kate and Jake's junior high and high school years (complete with an exhausting amount of early Nineties trivia), the story is implausible, and Jake never seems worth all the fuss. However, if the Nanny Diaries movie is as successful as the book was, every public library should have this new work on the shelf. [See Prepub Alert, LJ2/15/07.]

Library Journal

Kate's boyfriend disappeared two days before the senior prom, then resurfaced as a rock star whose songs were always about her. Now he's back in town. From the team that gave us The Nanny Diaries; with a five-city tour. Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

A young woman gets the chance to confront the now world-famous rock star who broke her heart 13 years ago, and who went on to write a series of deeply personal songs about her. Back in Croton Falls, Vt., Jake Sharpe was a teen dream: beautiful, talented, with an aching vulnerability and an unhappy home life. After adoring him for much of high school, Kate Hollis finally gets her man, and the two are inseparable until Jake takes off for L.A. shortly before graduation-without saying goodbye. A devastated Kate tries to get over her loss, but finds it exceedingly difficult as Jake's music career takes off, with his songs about their young love becoming modern classics. So when her childhood best friend Laura calls to alert her that Jake has come home to do a TV special, Kate puts her grown-up life in Charleston on hold and heads to Croton Falls, in an effort to make Jake "regret his entire existence." At her parent's house, Kate revisits all the memories, good and bad, that led her to this moment, including her dad's mental breakdown and her mom's subsequent affair, which brought Kate and Jake even closer. And, yep, he wrote about that, too. She then schemes her way onto Jake's shoot, and catches his eye, setting the stage for the apology-and sexy reunion-that Kate has long been waiting for. Turns out that Jake has never gotten over her either, and the rekindling of their romance feels like fate, with Jake trying to make up for lost time. He whisks his muse to his New York penthouse, and the two share some blissful moments until the mayhem of his celebrity existence intrudes, causing Kate to question whether Jake has changed too much-or too little. This third effort from McLaughlin and Kraus(Citizen Girl, 2004, etc.) is spot-on in its depiction of Kate and Laura's early girlish hysteria, and quickly overcomes a certain cleverness for its own sake to tell a moving story of teenage passion. Bittersweet coming-of-age tale with flashes of wit and an especially sympathetic heroine.

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1

December 22, 2005

"He's here."

"Laura?" I ask into the phone, disoriented, voice sandy with sleep.

"Kate."

"Yeah," I murmur, my head sinking, pushing the receiver deeper into the pillow.

"He's here," she repeats. "In Croton."

Her words register and my eyes fly open. I sit up.

"Awake now?" she asks.

"Yes." I look over to my bedside table, tilting up straighter to see over the stack of books. The glowing numbers on the clock read 4:43 a.m. "How — "

"Mick's been throwing up — some kind of stomach flu slash candy cane binge with the baby-sitter. I look out the bathroom window and his mother's house is lit up like Disney World, called the sheriff's office and they confirmed it. He's here. He's here, Kate."

I fling off the duvet. "I'm coming." Dropping the cordless into its metallic stand, I swing both feet to the smooth wood floor of my bedroom.

He's here — there. Jake Sharpe. Of course it's not three P.M. ona Saturday. Of course you reappear in the middle of the night like somenocturnal blood-leech.

Adrenaline surges. I grab yoga pants from the chair, pull them up under my nightslip, and tug the little black cardigan from the doorknob. Throwing open the closet doors, I stand on tiptoe, fingernails catching the edge of my suitcase handle just enough to avalanche it off the shelf, business trip toiletries raining on my head and rolling across the hardwood. I scramble to retrieve the miniature bottles, an anxiety-dream sweat dampening the silk of my slip. Only I'm awake. And Laura's flare finally hovers in the night sky overthe snowy hills of our hometown.

Indignation fuels the whipping open of drawers, fistfuls ofunderwear, T-shirts, and pajamas filling the case, my mind moving ahead to the important items — skinny jeans, date sweater, dangly earrings — the heels that knock me up to five-nine. The two zipper toggles collide and I shove my brass travel lock through the holes.

Rolling down the hall I push my feet into my sneakers, yank my trench from its hook, open the front door to the cricket quiet of my suburban street, and reach into my pocket for the keys — shit, my purse. I whirl in the dark apartment, spotting it hiding on the kitchen table among the boxes of unwritten Christmas cards, rolls of wrapping paper, and my laptop. No. I don't need my laptop. Just bring the binder to read on the plane. Then I might start the report. Then I might need my laptop. Just bring the laptop. I try to unclip it from the docking station, but my fingers fumble. I flick the light switch on, startled by the jarring brightness. But, oh, this is good, yes, okay, good, light helps. Okay, reality check. I take in my reflection in the kitchen window, face creased from sleep, eyes puffed from deprivation of same, brown hair tangled from passing out in forgotten ponytail holder.

This is insane.

I flick the light back off, swing the front door shut, stalk back to thebedroom, flop on top of the bed, and pull the still-warm duvet over melike a taco. Letting the keys drop from my grip, I will the adrenalineaway, will back the peaceful dead-to-the-world repose I was beneath justmoments ago.

Sleep, Kate. Go back...to sleep. You've been working nonstop — the conference, the meetings, the forty-two-hour round-trip to Argentina. This bed was all you could think of. Aren't you comfortable? And relaxed? Living your life? Sleeping in your bed? Isn't it nice to be an adult...who can get into her own bed...in her own apartment...and go to sleep...on her own timing. My pulse deepens. And not be reduced to some stupid...knee-jerk...adolescent...obsessive...lunatic behavior...just because Jake's finally shown up — finally shown up —

I sit up. Breathless.

And within minutes find myself flying along Route 26, counting off the exits to the Charleston airport.

I pull the suitcase from the backseat and lock the Prius with a doublebeep, glancing up once again at the LONG-TERM PARKING sign. I ignore theimplications. This is a swing through, that's all. An eight-hundred-mileswing through.

The sky still black behind me, I pass between the sliding glass doors into a brick-walled trough of canned air and canned music. The lone ticket agent, wearing three-step eyes and impressively pronounced lipstick for predawn, smiles in greeting. "Checking in?" she asks. I blink at the crimson foil poinsettia pinned to her uniform. "Checking in?" she repeats.

"Yes?" I answer uncertainly.

She looks at me inquisitively as I look at her inquisitively. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Yes. I'm going to Croton Falls, Vermont. Burlington is closest, but I'll take whatever you have." I drop my purse on the counter and rest my messengerbag heavy with my laptop between my ankles.

"Can I see your I.D.?" I flip open my wallet and slide the plastic over.

She looks down at the card with a frown. "Solutions for Sustainability?"

"Sorry." I trade her my office badge for my license.

"And ticket?"

"Actually I don't have one, but I need to get on the first flight. What do you have?"

She taps the keyboard, and I watch her stare intently at the obscured screen, all the possible routes back to him. "Well, let's see, there is one seat left on the commuter to Atlanta, then a two-hour layover, which would get you into LaGuardia by three and then another layover..."

"Is that really the earliest I can get there?" I lift my wheelie onto the metalscale.

She tears the outdated baggage tag from the handle. "Two days before Christmas — yes."

"Right. Great. Thank you."

"If the weather cooperates you should be in Burlington by six P.M." Almost twelve hours from now. Rock on.

I take my ticket, with its two layovers and one leg in cargo, and make my way to the gate, wishing for a Starbucks, but settling for a man selling the bare basics from a brown Formica cart.

Slinging my messenger bag into the overhead bin I take my seat in row thirteen with a bruised banana and large black coffee. I nestle against the plastic wallpaper and let my hair down from its makeshift topknot, my lids drooping shut, blocking out the sensation of everyone settling in around me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has informed us we may be hittingsome turbulence, so we will be turning the seat belt sign back on.Please make sure that they are fastened." I reflexively open my eyes todouble-check that I'm still buckled in beneath my neglected binder onArgentina's revised pollution regulations. My gaze locks with theheadline of my seatmate's US Weekly. "First photos ever! Jake Sharpe andEden Millay spotted ring shopping in St. Bart's. Is it WEDDING BELLS?"We hit an air pocket and the plane drops, my stomach lurching.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're now beginning our descent." Twisting the opening of my bag toward me with my foot to keep it level, I pray those aren't prescient words.

I peer out the window for some visual landmark to orient me — a landing strip, the distant lights of Burlington, but the blackness seems thick and impermeable. Then the clouds clear the full moon, the snow-covered fields suddenly gleaming as if lit by a flashbulb. I rub my eyes as the wheels touch down.

A chapped-cheeked luggage handler emerges through the plastic flaps from the tarmac, pulling the laden metal cart behind him, trailing tread marks of sleet on the tile. He deposits its contents before us, and immediately there's a flurry of grabbing hands, the snapping of handles extending, as my fellow passengers take what's theirs and go. I stare for a moment in disbelief at the empty steel trolly. Shit. "Sir?" I make a beeline to where the man is checking off arriving flights on a clipboard. "Is that all the bags?"

"Sorry, ma'am, there're baggage delays coming out of New York. If yours isn't there, check with Velma at the desk. She can help you fill out a report."

I drop my head. "Thank you."

As Velma and I fill out the forms she repeatedly promises with a big smile that they will bring my little rolling bag to my door the minute it arrives in Burlington, the minute. Only, she concludes brusquely, as she taps the layers of forms neatly back together on the countertop, it's Christmas and she can't make any promises. I nod, heaving my bags back onto my shoulder, the realization sinking in that I'm going to be trying to make someone regret his entire existence in yoga pants. I walk to the sliding glass doors and — ohfuckohfuckohfuck — run through the snowdrifts in my sneakers to the fewwaiting taxis, their mufflers steaming. I slam the door shut behind me with a rusty squeak. "Hi, I'm going to Croton Falls, please."

"Croton!" the driver coughs, resting the cigarette on his lip to shift the carinto drive. "My cousin's in Fayville — with the Christmas traffic, thatcould be an hour, easy."

"I know." I let my bags slide off my shoulder onto the torn vinyl seat. "I'll pay your return fare." I re-count the fold of twenties from the LaGuardia ATM. "Please?"

"Suit yourself." He grumbles our destination to his dispatcher on the CB duct taped to the dashboard.

"And, sir?" I flap the clammy Lycra hems away from my bareankles. "Would you mind rolling up the window?"

He flicks the glowing butt onto the road as he reaches for the circular end of the handle. "Didn't think it was gonna be snowing?"

I huddle against the maroon vinyl, tucking my legs up under me in an effort to warm the damp fabric. "I didn't think it was going to be December."

Copyright © 2007 by Italics, LLC

Read a Sample Chapter

Dedication

Atria

1

December 22, 2005

"He's here."

"Laura?" I ask into the phone, disoriented, voice sandy with sleep.

"Kate."

"Yeah," I murmur, my head sinking, pushing the receiver deeper into the pillow.

"He's here," she repeats. "In Croton."

Her words register and my eyes fly open. I sit up.

"Awake now?" she asks.

"Yes." I look over to my bedside table, tilting up straighter to see over the

stack of books. The glowing numbers on the clock read 4:43 a.m. "How -- "

"Mick's been throwing up -- some kind of stomach flu slash candy cane binge

with the baby-sitter. I look out the bathroom window and his mother's house

is lit up like Disney World, called the sheriff's office and they confirmed it.

He's here. He's here, Kate."

I fling off the duvet. "I'm coming." Dropping the cordless into its metallic

stand, I swing both feet to the smooth wood floor of my bedroom.

He's here -- there. Jake Sharpe. Of course it's not three P.M. on

a Saturday. Of course you reappear in the middle of the night like some

nocturnal blood-leech.

Adrenaline surges. I grab yoga pants from the chair, pull them up under my

nightslip, and tug the little black cardigan from the doorknob. Throwing open

the closet doors, I stand on tiptoe, fingernails catching the edgeof my

suitcase handle just enough to avalanche it off the shelf, business trip

toiletries raining on my head and rolling across the hardwood. I scramble to

retrieve the miniature bottles, an anxiety-dream sweat dampening the silk of

my slip. Only I'm awake. And Laura's flare finally hovers in the night sky over

the snowy hills of our hometown.

Indignation fuels the whipping open of drawers, fistfuls of underwear,

T-shirts, and pajamas filling the case, my mind moving ahead to the important

items -- skinny jeans, date sweater, dangly earrings -- the heels that knock me

up to five-nine. The two zipper toggles collide and I shove my brass travel

lock through the holes.

Rolling down the hall I push my feet into my sneakers, yank my trench from its

hook, open the front door to the cricket quiet of my suburban street, and reach

into my pocket for the keys -- shit, my purse. I whirl in the dark apartment,

spotting it hiding on the kitchen table among the boxes of unwritten Christmas

cards, rolls of wrapping paper, and my laptop. No. I don't need my laptop. Just

bring the binder to read on the plane. Then I might start the report. Then I

might need my laptop. Just bring the laptop. I try to unclip it from the

docking station, but my fingers fumble. I flick the light switch on, startled

by the jarring brightness. But, oh, this is good, yes, okay, good, light helps.

Okay, reality check. I take in my reflection in the kitchen window, face

creased from sleep, eyes puffed from deprivation of same, brown hair tangled

from passing out in forgotten ponytail holder.

This is insane.

I flick the light back off, swing the front door shut, stalk back to the

bedroom, flop on top of the bed, and pull the still-warm duvet over me

like a taco. Letting the keys drop from my grip, I will the adrenaline

away, will back the peaceful dead-to-the-world repose I was beneath just

moments ago.

Sleep, Kate. Go back...to sleep. You've been working nonstop -- the conference,

the meetings, the forty-two-hour round-trip to Argentina. This bed was all you

could think of. Aren't you comfortable? And relaxed? Living your life? Sleeping

in your bed? Isn't it nice to be an adult...who can get into her own bed...in

her own apartment...and go to sleep...on her own timing. My pulse deepens.

And not be reduced to some stupid...knee-jerk...adolescent...obsessive...

lunatic behavior...just because Jake's finally shown up -- finally shown up --

I sit up. Breathless.

And within minutes find myself flying along Route 26, counting off the exits

to the Charleston airport.

I pull the suitcase from the backseat and lock the Prius with a double

beep, glancing up once again at the LONG-TERM PARKING sign. I ignore the

implications. This is a swing through, that's all. An eight-hundred-mile

swing through.

The sky still black behind me, I pass between the sliding glass doors into a

brick-walled trough of canned air and canned music. The lone ticket agent,

wearing three-step eyes and impressively pronounced lipstick for predawn,

smiles in greeting. "Checking in?" she asks. I blink at the crimson foil

poinsettia pinned to her uniform. "Checking in?" she repeats.

"Yes?" I answer uncertainly.

She looks at me inquisitively as I look at her inquisitively. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Yes. I'm going to Croton Falls, Vermont. Burlington is closest, but I'll

take whatever you have." I drop my purse on the counter and rest my messenger

bag heavy with my laptop between my ankles.

"Can I see your I.D.?"

I flip open my wallet and slide the plastic over.

She looks down at the card with a frown. "Solutions for Sustainability?"

"Sorry." I trade her my office badge for my license.

"And ticket?"

"Actually I don't have one, but I need to get on the first flight. What do you

have?"

She taps the keyboard, and I watch her stare intently at the obscured screen,

all the possible routes back to him. "Well, let's see, there is one seat left

on the commuter to Atlanta, then a two-hour layover, which would get you into

LaGuardia by three and then another layover..."

"Is that really the earliest I can get there?" I lift my wheelie onto the metal

scale.

She tears the outdated baggage tag from the handle. "Two days before

Christmas -- yes."

"Right. Great. Thank you."

"If the weather cooperates you should be in Burlington by six P.M." Almost

twelve hours from now. Rock on.

I take my ticket, with its two layovers and one leg in cargo, and make my way

to the gate, wishing for a Starbucks, but settling for a man selling the bare

basics from a brown Formica cart.

Slinging my messenger bag into the overhead bin I take my seat in row thirteen

with a bruised banana and large black coffee. I nestle against the plastic

wallpaper and let my hair down from its makeshift topknot, my lids drooping

shut, blocking out the sensation of everyone settling in around me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has informed us we may be hitting

some turbulence, so we will be turning the seat belt sign back on.

Please make sure that they are fastened." I reflexively open my eyes to

double-check that I'm still buckled in beneath my neglected binder on

Argentina's revised pollution regulations. My gaze locks with the

headline of my seatmate's US Weekly. "First photos ever! Jake Sharpe and

Eden Millay spotted ring shopping in St. Bart's. Is it WEDDING BELLS?"

We hit an air pocket and the plane drops, my stomach lurching.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're now beginning our descent." Twisting the opening

of my bag toward me with my foot to keep it level, I pray those aren't

prescient words.

I peer out the window for some visual landmark to orient me -- a landing strip,

the distant lights of Burlington, but the blackness seems thick and

impermeable. Then the clouds clear the full moon, the snow-covered fields

suddenly gleaming as if lit by a flashbulb. I rub my eyes as the wheels touch

down.

A chapped-cheeked luggage handler emerges through the plastic flaps from the

tarmac, pulling the laden metal cart behind him, trailing tread marks of sleet

on the tile. He deposits its contents before us, and immediately there's a

flurry of grabbing hands, the snapping of handles extending, as my fellow

passengers take what's theirs and go. I stare for a moment in disbelief at the

empty steel trolly. Shit. "Sir?" I make a beeline to where the man is checking

off arriving flights on a clipboard. "Is that all the bags?"

"Sorry, ma'am, there're baggage delays coming out of New York. If yours isn't

there, check with Velma at the desk. She can help you fill out a report."

I drop my head. "Thank you."

As Velma and I fill out the forms she repeatedly promises with a big smile

that they will bring my little rolling bag to my door the minute it arrives

in Burlington, the minute. Only, she concludes brusquely, as she taps the

layers of forms neatly back together on the countertop, it's Christmas and

she can't make any promises. I nod, heaving my bags back onto my shoulder,

the realization sinking in that I'm going to be trying to make someone regret

his entire existence in yoga pants. I walk to the sliding glass doors and --

ohfuckohfuckohfuck -- run through the snowdrifts in my sneakers to the few

waiting taxis, their mufflers steaming. I slam the door shut behind me with a

rusty squeak. "Hi, I'm going to Croton Falls, please."

"Croton!" the driver coughs, resting the cigarette on his lip to shift the car

into drive. "My cousin's in Fayville -- with the Christmas traffic, that

could be an hour, easy."

"I know." I let my bags slide off my shoulder onto the torn vinyl seat. "I'll

pay your return fare." I re-count the fold of twenties from the LaGuardia ATM.

"Please?"

"Suit yourself." He grumbles our destination to his dispatcher on the CB duct

taped to the dashboard.

"And, sir?" I flap the clammy Lycra hems away from my bare

ankles. "Would you mind rolling up the window?"

He flicks the glowing butt onto the road as he reaches for the circular end of

the handle. "Didn't think it was gonna be snowing?"

I huddle against the maroon vinyl, tucking my legs up under me in an effort to

warm the damp fabric. "I didn't think it was going to be December."

Copyright © 2007 by Italics, LLC

Continues...

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