Praise for the novels of Kristan Higgins
“The path to love is bumpy and strewn with land mines in this surprisingly deep charmer from rom-com queen Higgins . . . Emotional resonance balances zany antics in a powerful story that feels completely real.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A special writer at the top of her game.”
—NPR
“[Higgins] only gets better with each book.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“The kind of book I enjoy the most—sparkling characters, fast-moving plot and laugh-out-loud dialogue. A winner!”
—Susan Elizabeth Phillips
“Both gut-wrenchingly emotional and hysterically funny at the same time . . . Kristan Higgins writes the books you don’t want to end.”
—Robyn Carr
“Tender, sexy and hilarious as only Higgins can write it. A story to savor.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Higgins’s complex, witty characters will seem like close friends, and readers will savor each and every page as they find that love comes in many different flavors and forms. Demand will be high for the latest from this women’s fiction star.”
—Booklist
“Higgins’s latest tour de force is a captivating read about two sisters dealing with love, loss and new beginnings.”
—RT Book Reviews (5 stars)
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2018 by Kristan Higgins
“Readers Guide” copyright © 2018 by Penguin Random House LLC
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Higgins, Kristan, author.
Title: Good luck with that / Kristan Higgins.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017041930| ISBN 9780451489395 (paperback) |
ISBN 9780451489418 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Self-acceptance in women—Fiction. | Self-esteem in women—Fiction. | Body image—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3608.I3657 G66 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017041930
First Edition: August 2018
Cover art by Laura Berdasco Sanchez
Cover design by Emily Osborne
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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This one is for all of us who’ve cried when looking in the mirror.
Here’s to never doing that again.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
At Berkley: There are so many people to thank, but none more than Claire Zion, my brilliant editor, and Craig Burke, head of publicity. Thanks to you and the entire Berkley team for gracing this book with enthusiasm, talent and heart.
At Maria Carvainis Agency: Boundless gratitude to Madame herself for her faith in me, and to Martha Guzman for her constant care and attention to detail.
At Author Rx: Thanks to Mel Jolly for taking care of all the things I never would’ve thought of on my own.
Additional, huge heartfelt thanks to:
Coaches Dave Bellemare, Mike Ford and Jack McShane, who always judge children on the content of their character rather than on the speed of their feet—thank you for helping make my son an even better person than he already was.
Christian Alberico, a role model in kindness, leadership and hard work, and to his parents, for raising a truly great person.
Diana Phung and Natalie Alamo, for their insight into the duties of a preschool teacher and some really fun stories as well.
Silvi Martin, for her Spanish translations, constant good cheer and friendship.
Alison Harrisberger Warford, who shared with me the spirit of Admiral, the quiet and noble friend we all should be so lucky to have.
Joss Dey, Jennifer Iszkiewicz, Anne Renwick, Stacia Bjarnason and Huntley Fitzpatrick, my beloved friends and fellow writers, for the laughter, the catchphrases, the wonderful weekends, the honesty and the friendship.
Terence, Flannery and Declan, thank you for being exactly who you are. I can never seem to find the words to say how much I love you, but love you I do, and with all my heart.
To write a book about a subject as emotionally charged as body acceptance, weight and health was an undertaking. I built on my personal experiences with the issues the characters tackle in Good Luck with That and sought out variety of other sources and experiences as well. If you’re interested, you can find a list of those sources at kristanhiggins.com/good-luck-with-that/read-more. Specifically, however, I would like to thank the following medical and mental health specialists: Jeff Pinco, MD; Stacia Bjarnason, PhD; Margaret O’Hagan-Lynch, LPC; Samantha Heller, MS, RD, CDN; Nadeem Hussain, MD; and Julia Kristan, RN.
Most especially, however, thank you to the dozens of honest, brave, funny, intelligent people who shared their personal stories online, anonymously and through face-to-face conversations with me.
And to you, readers, who have chosen to spend a few hours with this book. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
CONTENTS
Praise for the novels of Kristan Higgins
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Readers Guide
About the Author
PROLOGUE
SIXTEEN YEARS AGO
For once, no one was thinking of food.
From above, they were just three teenage girls, bobbing in the middle of the clear blue lake, a rowboat drifting lazily nearby as they splashed and laughed. A blonde and two brunettes, one with black hair, one with brown. Their voices rose and fell. Occasionally, one of them would slip underwater, then pop up a few yards away. Hair would be slicked back, and the swimmer might flip on her back and look up at the sky, so pure and deep that day, the thick white clouds floating slowly past on the lazy breeze.
Just the three of them out in the lake, an unauthorized swim time, rebels all, at least for the moment, free from the constraints and prescribed activities of Camp Copperbrook, where girls ages eleven to eighteen were sent to lose weight. For now, the three weren’t fat girls . . . they were just normal, and they were enjoying that elusive state of simply being as they goofed around in the lake. Emerson floating, ever dreamy; Georgia sidestroking efficiently; Marley twisting and wriggling like an otter.
They’d lost the oars to the rowboat, so one by one, they’d jumped in the water to fetch them. The lake was so silky and cool against their skin that no one wanted to get back out. They were weightless, and graceful. They were practically mermaids. After a while, they just floated on their backs, swishing their hands once in a while, kicking lackadaisically.
The sun was bright but behind the mountain; birds dipped and wheeled above the lake. From the pine-ringed beach came the far-off sound of the occasional whistle from one of the counselors, some laughter from other campers, a snatch of music.
Tomorrow, everyone would be going home.
“I love it here,” Emerson said, a wistful note in her soft voice. “This is my happy place. Right here, right now. I can’t believe we won’t be back next year.”
“Me too,” Georgia said. “It sucks to age out.”
“This has been the best summer,” Marley said.
Georgia lifted her head, checking to see how far away the boat was, then settled back into the water like it was a mattress.
None of them felt their weight in the clear stillness of the lake. There was no chafing, no sweating, no lumbering. No aching joints, no straining muscles and, at this moment, no labored breathing.
True peace was rare when you were fat. When you were fat, you wore armor to protect and deflect. You were either sharp and bitter, inspiring fear in potential bullies, or you were extra cheerful to show nothing mattered at all, not the snubs or the insults or the degradation. When you were fat, you worked so hard to be invisible. You lived in fear of being noticed, singled out, of having someone point out what you already knew.
You’re fat.
And these three girls were all fat.
But at this moment, they just were.
A black-and-white loon popped up right next to Marley’s head. She shrieked and flapped her hands, and the bird dove, disappearing into the depths.
“It tried to peck me!” Marley sputtered.
“You scared it to death,” Georgia said, snorting with laughter. “Relax. It’s just a bird.”
“I thought it was a shark,” she said.
“I’m pretty sure we’re safe from shark attacks,” Emerson said.
“Unless it’s a lake shark,” Marley said, and they all laughed again, the sounds floating up into the endless sky to join the creamy clouds.
Then a long whistle blast came from the camp, and a voice magnified by a bullhorn. “Marley, Georgia, Emerson! Get back to shore now!” It was their bitchy head counselor.
The three girls groaned in unison.
“She’s so mean,” Emerson said.
“She’s skinny,” Georgia added. “She shouldn’t be here. It’s bad for morale.” They laughed again at the truth of her words.
Georgia was the first to obey, flipping over and swimming neatly to the boat, gathering the errant oars on the way. Getting in wasn’t so pretty. “Party’s over, girls,” she said as she settled herself in the seat. Marley was next, able to raise herself over the side with ease, the most athletic one of the three.
Emerson . . . Emerson needed help from both of them, and even then, it was hard. Whatever grace the three girls had in the lake was shed like drops of water as the reality of their bodies returned to the gravity of the water-free world.
“When I’m skinny, I’m going to swim every day,” Emerson said, panting from the exertion.
“When I’m skinny, I’m going to rock a bathing suit,” Marley said, pulling her sturdy one-piece away from her body. “This thing is worse than a corset. I can’t wait to take it off.”
Georgia didn’t say anything, just picked up the oars and fitted them in the locks.
“Let’s make a list when we get back,” Emerson said. “All the things we’ll do when we’re not fat anymore. Things we can’t even dream of now.”
“We can dream,” Georgia said, pulling on the oars. The boat slid forward, and Marley trailed a hand in the water. “Nothing wrong with dreams.”
“A list sounds like fun,” Marley said. “It’ll motivate us to lose weight. We can call each other when we cross stuff off.”
Little waves slapped against the bow as they got closer to shore. Georgia’s strokes slowed, and she docked the oars for a moment as all three of them looked back at the purple and pink clouds burnished by the setting sun, the pine trees turning black in silhouette.
Sitting there for one last moment, they all knew the magical afternoon was over, yet no one could quite let it go. After all, how many days like this do you get in life? How often can you really be free, alive . . . weightless?
That’s the problem with perfect moments. They end.
Though no one would say it, all three girls knew things would never be quite the same again.
CHAPTER 1
FOUR YEARS AGO
Dear Diary,
I love starting a new journal. It feels so clean! Like, who knows what I can fill up these pages with? Maybe you’ll be the diary where I write about my first love, my trip to Rome, my engagement ring, my babies! Okay, that’s probably getting ahead of myself, but you never know. I was watching Ellen the other day and this woman was talking about how fast her life changed when she lost weight. So maybe mine will, too.
Emerson Lydia Duval.
Emerson Lydia Duval.
I love my name. I still can fill pages of a notebook writing it over and over. Lydia was my mother’s great-aunt; she died in the Holocaust. She’d been a ballet dancer, apparently. I love carrying her name, though I try not to imagine what she’d think of my outer self.
Emerson Lydia Duval. Someone with that name is definitely elegant and beautiful, hip without being trendy. She clearly went to Smith College, don’t you think? She’s tall, beautiful, slim. (God, I love that word!) But she can eat anything she wants, of course. Sometimes, though, she’s so busy she forgets to eat, because unless it’s a really special meal, food is an afterthought, not 98 percent of what she thinks about. She played on the volleyball team in college. Or no, she played field hockey, the ultimate rich-girl sport. (Georgia played, now that I think of it.)
Yes, Emerson Lydia Duval played field hockey at prep school and college, because she loves being outside. She founded her college’s hiking club. Still an avid outdoorswoman, she adores animals, but her heavy travel schedule doesn’t let her have a pet. Her clothes are loose fitting and effortless, but so stylish, and when she does put on a black cocktail dress and her Christian Louboutins, you can hear men’s jaws hitting the pavement all over the city.
This other Emerson Duval lives in New York. No, San Francisco, in a sleek high-rise building. She flies first class but uses the time and extra space to work tirelessly for the nonprofit she founded while in graduate school at Stanford. She doesn’t need the money; Other Emerson has a trust fund. (Not that I’m knocking the plain old inheritance I have.) But Other E
merson barely touches it. Her one indulgence is that apartment. Gotta have a nice place to live, and occasionally, to entertain as part of her job. It’s her haven, tastefully furnished with a view of the Bay Bridge, and when the fog rolls in . . . perfection!
Emerson’s parents have a small (huge!) place in Paris, and she visits when she can. Her mother, a professor at La Sorbonne, takes Emerson shopping for chic clothing, and her dad asks for her input on the latest building he’s designing. Emerson’s bilingual, of course. Tri-, really, but she doesn’t feel her Mandarin is up to snuff. (She’s modest. It’s flawless.) She’s just as comfortable discussing the economics of sub-Saharan countries as she is dressing up for the Met Gala.
She has a boyfriend, bien sûr. He’s funny and devoted and looks like a young Idris Elba. He’s a surgeon, probably, or a tech genius. He loves her desperately and is waiting for the day when her life will allow her to say yes. He bought the ring after their first date.
Yeah.
I’m not saying I’ll ever become that Emerson. I mean, I know I won’t. I just like thinking about her. She keeps me company.
In my imagination, Other Emerson could be friends with someone like me—someone who gets stared at every time she leaves the house. Someone who’s judged and found disgusting every single day. Someone who weighs three times what she should. She would see the real me, not just the fat. She wouldn’t see the fat at all. She’d see the funny, kind, sweet person I know I am but who no one else tries to see. My mom did, of course, but she’s gone now. Georgia and Marley, they do, too.
I wish they lived closer. I guess I could move, but I love this house. Mama’s house. Except for college, I’ve never lived anywhere else.
Ah, well. Hang with me, Other Emerson. Who knows what life will be like by the time this diary is filled up?
CHAPTER 2
Marley
PRESENT DAY
It’s those deathbed promises that bite you in the ass.
Granted, I did not start the day aware that I’d be driving through four states to stand by a hospital bed, trying not to sob. I’d started it by thinking about what I’d make for breakfast, then lunch, then dinner. I’m a chef, and a fat girl. Food is everything.
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