Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book Read Online Free Page B

Charlie.”
    “Likewise, Babe. Do let me know if you’re ever in New York. Get my number from your dad, I’d love to catch up properly.”
    “You got it,” I said, almost out the door.
    “Oh, I quite liked your book. I read the whole thing in one sitting on a flight to London.”
    I paused and turned back toward Charlie.
    “ White Girl Problems .” Charlie smiled.
    BTW: While in rehab, fueled by Adderall and Diet Coke, I’d penned a memoir over the course of forty-eight hours titled White Girl Problems by Babe Walker. It was basically my life’s struggles put down on paper. When I was finished writing it, I sent it to my dad as part of a “growth exercise” that Jackson recommended. Long story short, my dad (who is an entertainment attorney in Hollywood) loved the memoir, thought it could be a huge hit, and got my blessing to send it out to a few book agents and publishers. There was a bidding war for the manuscript, I got a book deal with a major publisher, it was a New York Times best seller, blah, blah, blah, the end, back to Charlie, juice, my kitchen.
    “You read my book?”
    “Yep. Loved it. I know I’m not your key demo, but I’d argue that we’ve had fairly similar upbringings. So, I’d like to think I get it,” Charlie said.
    “Thanks. Most people read it and don’t think that I’m real, so it’s nice to hear that you loved it.”
    With that, my green juice and I were on our way to the solarium, where I blessed my juice and had a quick meditation before heading to the Equinox on Sunset for a workout. Charlie’s smile lingered in my brain.
    Old Babe would never be caught dead in a gym, but New Babe was all about putting herself out there and interacting with the incredible, positive people found in sacred places like mosques and group spin classes. While at Cirque, I’d gotten into a workout routine where I’d basically do an hour of yoga, followed by an hour to an hour and a half of cardio (depending on my mood). My yoga practice was getting so solid that I could almost do a pinky-stand, which is major. Google it if you don’t believe me. Endorphins were my cocaine and Lululemon pants were my rolled-up hundred-dollar bills.
    I was on minute 173 of an 180-minute elliptical sesh, nearing the end of my meditation, when my mind started to wander . . . Jackson told me to “let the universe deliver,” but what does that mean, exactly? I thought to myself. What does the universe have in store for me, besides mental clarity and spiritual fulfillment? Will I get a job? If so, where? Do I want a job? Not really. Probably best to wait on the whole job thing for now. Charlie was cute. Will I ever fall in love again? Am I even ready to fall in love? The last person I loved made me insane. God, I miss Robert sometimes. He smelled so good and had the best teeth. And he was funny. I mean, not as funny as me, but I don’t really think I’d want to date someone funnier than me. I wonder what Robert’s doing right now? I wonder if he hates me. He definitely hates me. But I’m okay with that. Ohm.
    Just as I was pumping out the last few strides of my workout, I took three deep cleansing breaths, closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them again, I saw one of the most shocking sights of my entire life: Robert was standing about ten feet away from me doing bicep curls. The same Robert who had broken my heart into a thousand pieces only two short years ago. Or had I broken his heart? Either way, I couldn’t believe it. These things don’t just happen, right? I took a sip of my oxidized, electrolyte-infused bottled water, wiped a layer of shine from my forehead, and casually walked over to where Robert was standing.
    “I can’t remember, has the restraining order been lifted?” I smiled. “If not, then I think I have five seconds to move one hundred and fifty feet away from you. But if it has, then . . . hey.”
    “Hi, Babe,” said Robert in a gravelly tone.
    God, he was so fucking sexy.