Between Boyfriends: Free Romantic Comedy: The Between Boyfriends Series, #1

By Sarka-Jonae Miller

Enjoy this award-winning, feel-good summer beach read free! More than 800,000 reads.
At first glance, twenty-one-year-old Jan Weston has it all: a gorgeous boyfriend, fun friends, and wealthy parents who take care of all those pesky credit card bills.
Then her boyfriend dumps her, her friendships fall apart, and her parents cut her off. Suddenly without money, without a man, and without a plan, it's time for Jan to grow up.
Determined to get her life back on track, Jan decides it's time to make it on her own. Can she find her way as a single lady in San Diego? Can she fix her friendships, her job prospects, and her hair? And can she keep her vow that she'll never date again, even after she meets a guy who just might be perfect for her?

BETWEEN BOYFRIENDS is a sexy, hilarious story of living life, finding love, and growing up... but not necessarily in that order.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SJ Miller
• Release date: May 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533731012

Book preview

Prologue

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Mike Harris had to break up with his girlfriend. He had to.

Otherwise, he would likely become the first man in history to die from a myocardial infarction brought on by girlfriend-induced drama.

His girlfriend Jan was five foot seven, blonde, had hazel eyes, and great legs. She pouted like a supermodel, paid someone to do his laundry, and always picked up the check. She was rich, spoiled, and everything that came along with. She threw tantrums, attempted to rule him with a manicured fist, and nagged him daily. She was what his friends called a code-red clinger. It was past time to make his escape.

A resolved Mike relaxed into the bench and gazed at the beautiful scenery on the college campus, forgetting momentarily that his phone would ring any second to signal the end. Two gorgeous blondes were playing frisbee near the entrance to Love Library. A herd of naïve freshmen girls was sitting on the grass behind them. To his left, a long-legged brunette was sunning herself as she pretended to study.

This is what college is all about, he told himself. A light breeze floated by, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass. The sun shone brightly. Mike breathed deeply and attained a near Zen-like calm. His life was almost perfect. He craved an existence free from stress, responsibility, and obligations. Being a marketing student at San Diego State University afforded him that luxury, and yet provided him with boundaries to define his freedom. His sole source of anxiety was Jan.

A sharp pain in his neck pulled his attention away from babe watching. He gently massaged a knot in his neck then tilted his head from side to side. This was his last year at SDSU, he reminded himself sharply, his last chance to make the most of the experience. He knew that Jan had a hard time relating since she had dropped out of college to become a massage therapist. Nevertheless, he needed to do this.

The ringing of his cell drowned out his internal pep talk. He shifted uncomfortably out of his relaxed pose. His arms crossed unconsciously.

Three o’clock exactly, he mumbled. The wind shifted. It blew insistently against the side of his face. He pushed his brown hair back behind his ear. It came loose and jabbed into his eyes.

The phone rang again. Mike shifted away from the wind and hurried to answer before she could leave another voicemail. Jan liked to call him the second her class went on break. He didn’t always pick up, but this time he had to. In the past four days, his phone had logged five voicemails and eleven missed calls from The Nag. Mike had been avoiding her in the vain hope that she would get the hint and leave him alone. He hated it when girls got emotional; the one thing they all freaked out about was getting dumped. He wished they could take it, well, like a man. They could exchange a nice handshake goodbye and best wishes for the future. But girls had to cry, which made Mike feel like a jerk.

She must know something’s wrong after I didn’t show up last night, he assured himself and flipped open the phone.

Hello, he said tiredly.

Hey, baby, came a bright, cheerful response.

Jan’s opening move: pretend everything was great.

Hey. What’s up? You on break? As if he needed to ask.

Yeah, it’s only the end of the third week and I’m already bored. Who knew there would be so much lecturing involved? I thought massage school would be easy.

Mike stifled a laugh. Jan had always been amusing — in small doses. She never liked to put much effort into anything, except spending time with him. She put a little too much effort into him.

So, where’ve you been? We had dinner plans last night.

Before Mike could answer that he had been busy organizing his spam email folder, Jan overrode him and continued in a condescending tone, You should have called if you weren’t going to make it. And I haven’t heard from you in days. I don’t know why I put up with this crap. You couldn’t have been that busy.

Next move: invoke guilt. Don’t you love me anymore?

Mike put a mental clamp on his annoyance. Jan’s rant was just the kind of thing that shot his blood pressure up to... whatever really high was. He loathed being obligated to do things with her all the time. Even more, he hated it when she constantly sought reassurances of his feelings, feelings which mattered less to him than they did to her. She acted like they were soul mates. Mike couldn’t see how that was possible.

Look, Jan. We need to talk.

Judging from the silence he assumed she was catching on. He could almost feel her anger locking onto him from miles away like a heat-seeking missile.

What—would—you—like—to—talk—about?

Her tone implied he had better carefully consider how he answered. Despite her frequent lovey-dovey moments, Jan could be downright terrifying when she was upset.

Mike sighed. Us.

He took a steadying breath.

Jan, come on, he pleaded. This isn’t working out. We’ve tried to take breaks, but we start fighting again the second we make up. We can’t make each other happy. And besides, I’m a senior now. I really need to focus on graduating and I can’t do that with a full-time girlfriend.

Mike heard a sniffle from the other end of the connection. He shook his head in disbelief. It used to make him feel terrible when she cried, but after eight months of her bawling every time she didn’t get her way, he was practically immune.

I think it’s best if we don’t talk to each other anymore. Make a clean break, okay?

He heard another sniffle, followed by a whimper. God, she’s manipulative.

But even so, they had been together a long time, and Mike thought that he should still care about her.

Are you okay? I really need to go now, but I hope you’re all right.

Yeah, right, Jan shrieked. If you really cared, you wouldn’t be doing this. You said you loved me, but obviously that was a lie. After everything we’ve been through... you’re such a jerk! How could you do this to me?

An eruption of tears and sobs poured out of his speaker. Mike yanked the phone away from his ear and gnashed his teeth. His shoulders went up to his ears. Throbbing tension pulsed down his neck. He couldn’t deal with any more emotional outbursts.

Mike snapped. Whatever you say, Jan. I guess you answered your own question. I’m a jerk. An unfeeling, inconsiderate asshole who never loved you. But that’s not your problem anymore. I’m not your problem anymore and you’re not mine! Goodbye.

He thought he heard a desperate cry of wait but ignored it and ended the call. Relief washed through him. His neck muscles unclenched and his shoulders slid back against the bench. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He smiled up at the sun and let it burn away the remnants of guilt.

Chapter 1

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He never loved me.

The words circled around and around inside her head until they seemed to burst out her ears. Her thoughts swirled angrily in front of her face, crashing against the Egyptian cotton walls of her one-thousand-thread-count sanctuary. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe; she was choking on the spinning truths.

I need out.

Jan threw the covers violently from her. She emerged from her burrow of sweaty sheets, tear-stained pillows, and used tissues squinting like a broken-hearted groundhog with a cold. She gasped for air. One hand pressed anxiously to her chest, bringing her awareness to the hollow feeling underneath the soft cotton of her Tinkerbell sweatshirt. Her hand drifted to the several layers of tears, snot, and perspiration she wore along with the pink sweatshirt and wiped the sleep from her eyes.

Harsh sunlight filtered into her bedroom window, exposing her face to the sun for the first time in days. Jan cringed from the light. Her stomach grumbled halfheartedly. A wadded-up tissue hung in her hair. She barely noticed as she continued to fill her lungs with fresh oxygen.

As her breathing regulated, her arms swept automatically about her in their daily wake-up ritual, searching first for a Tic Tac to battle morning breath and secondly for her cellphone. She found the phone quickly enough once her eyes adjusted to the light and peered at it longingly. It was top-of-the-line and almost impossible to use, thanks to its numerous features. Jan loved the phone despite its complexities. It was cute and impossible, her favorite combination.

Her shoulders slumped when she did not see a single missed call, text message, or voicemail alert flashing at her from the phone’s cover.

Figures!

She sighed, feeling more abandoned and alone than before.

Curious how long she had been on vacation from reality, Jan pressed the side button on the phone, causing the backlight to illuminate the outside display. Relief flooded through her as she read Sunday in tiny black letters on the screen. Her next massage therapy class wasn’t until Monday afternoon. Even though the quarter had just started, she had already missed all the classes she was allowed to without failing automatically.

Wait a minute, she thought. I’ve been lying here for two freaking days, she exclaimed with a healthy mixture of surprise and disgust. She tossed the phone back onto the nightstand where it hit with a loud clunk and slid unnoticed to the floor. Jan hurriedly attempted to vault out of bed. Unfortunately, she had wrapped her designer sheets so tightly around her that as she flung herself toward the bathroom, her foot caught in the bedding and she nosedived into the carpet.

She hit with a loud thud and a squeak of surprise. Pain exploded in her nostrils as blood trickled out. Tears welled up in her eyes. Using her anger to fight a desire to give up on life, Jan rolled over onto her back and pinched her nose with her right hand to stop the flow of blood. Her left hand yanked at the sheets trapping her foot.

She finally managed to extricate herself and walk unsteadily into the adjoining bathroom, her formerly pointy nose in the air. She flipped on the switch to the vanity lights above the bathroom mirror and squeaked in horror when she saw her bloody, tear-streaked reflection.

Oh my god, she exclaimed, her free hand flying up to pull the tissue out of her hair. The wad revealed a knot the size of a tennis ball behind it. Jan whimpered. She slowly took her hand away from her nose, hoping to get a better look at her damaged face. When blood did not immediately gush out, she took her fingertip and traced the temporary scars her pillow had left on her cheek.

Okay, so this is the worst I’ve looked since that time I was accidentally hit in the face with a tennis racket, she thought, but it’s not like anyone’s seen me — yet. Eek.

First things first, she decided. She turned on the faucet and splashed warm water on her face to wash off the blood and mucus. She gently palpated her injured nose and was relieved to find it wasn’t crooked. Satisfied that she would not have to endure life with a disfigured face, Jan turned her attention to more important matters: the nearly two billion knots hanging from her head where her beautiful straight hair used to be.

She grabbed her pink, Tinkerbell-adorned brush from its hiding place in the back of a drawer and viciously attacked the knots in her long, ash-blonde locks. She started at the top and yanked her way down.

Aargh. Jan scrunched up her face in frustration as her brush caught three inches from her part line. She tried the same tactic on the opposite side but couldn’t get the plastic bristles through the knots.

Annoyed by her lack of progress, Jan shouted, This sucks! She slammed her brush down on the bathroom counter, nearly smashing her fingers on a pair of manicure scissors. Her eyes lingered on the scissors before flicking back to her hair.

Eureka, she exclaimed and she snatched up the scissors. She remembered that she had been meaning to try layers in her hair but had been putting it off because she suspected Mike wouldn’t like them.

Well, screw him, she thought and began snipping out a knot. First thing tomorrow she would make an emergency appointment with her stylist.

Armed with the scissors, a bottle of detangler, and a wooden comb she found in her medicine cabinet, Jan quickly became lost in her task.

As she snipped, sprayed, and fantasized about putting a voodoo death curse on her ex, she felt better. She smiled at the bits of hair falling about her like blonde snowflakes. At least she had control over her hair. Who cared if guys dumped her left and right? So what if she had wasted an entire weekend crying in bed?

This happens to everybody, Jan assured herself with false confidence. Right? Moving on.

A glance in the mirror revealed progress. The knots were nearly gone. She was about to congratulate herself when something in the reflection caused her stomach to knot worse than her hair. A look south confirmed she was indeed wearing a pair of Mike’s boxers. She gagged and put her hand over her mouth to discourage barfing up the Tic Tac.

She was about to run back into her bedroom to change when she noticed the comb in her hand.

This was Eric’s, she realized after she noticed the engraved initials E.T. on the wooden handle. She scoffed as she remembered the ex-boyfriend whose obsession with his hair had compelled him to carry a comb and gel everywhere, sometimes even to bed. Jan opened her seldom-used medicine cabinet — she preferred leaving everything on the counter where she could get to it more easily — and found a travel-sized bottle of L.A. Looks Mega Mega Hold hair gel on the bottom shelf. Lying next to it was a man’s razor. Jan took the razor out to examine it. Several thick black hairs protruded from the end. Chad’s, maybe? Chad had been a surprisingly hairy ex. Or Fernando’s? Not-so-surprisingly hairy.

As she placed the razor back in the cabinet, she noticed a stick of men’s deodorant and a pair of rusty toenail clippers on the top shelf. The clippers were a mystery, but she had a stinking suspicion to whom the deodorant had once belonged. She grabbed the stick of Autumn Breeze and pulled the cap off before taking a good whiff.

Gross, she cried, and threw the pungent deodorant in the trash.

More like Autumn Sleaze. Definitely Steve’s. Jan looked around. What other smelly crap do I have around here?

A thorough search revealed a bottle of Axe body spray, four used toothbrushes, two bottles of bargain-brand shampoo, a half-used bar of soap that was stuck to the pipe under her sink, and 

some lame gifts she had forgotten about. A lemon-scented candle and some abrasive bath salts — not meant to be exfoliating — joined the ranks of junk on her counter. She was pretty sure both gifts had come from an international student she had dated freshman year. She could almost remember his name.

The trip down memory lane was highly amusing. She snickered as she remembered all the losers she had dated during the three years she had lived in the apartment. Yet with each name that popped into her head as she touched a new item, a breakup memory popped in alongside it. She scanned all the items on her counter. Her legs buckled. She swayed and grabbed the counter for support. All of a sudden, it didn’t seem so funny anymore. None of the other guys had stayed around as long as Mike had, and yet each parting had been painful in its own way.

Jan’s already fragile mental state nearly collapsed altogether when she realized that this weekend was not the rare occurrence she had shrugged it off as. She let go of the counter and sat down on the toilet seat. She put her head in her hands. The hollowness she had felt in her chest earlier seemed to have taken over the rest of her body.

I would give anything for someone to hold me right now, she thought, and crossed her arms in a self-comforting gesture. Jan realized that she would trade her Platinum Amex card, her MAC makeup, and all her shoes for a hug from one person who truly cared. She tried to remember what it felt like to have Mike’s arms around her, the intoxicating smell of his natural scent mixed with his deodorant comforting her with its familiarity. She shivered. She could lose herself in that smell.

The indulgence gave her a brief moment’s relief from the crushing weight of awareness. She snatched for a stronger memory of being held like a child reaching for her blankie. She thought back to childhood. Neither of her parents had shown her much affection. Logic told her that they must have hugged her at some point, but no instance of comfort had left a strong enough impression to wrap around herself.

Resigned, Jan asked herself, Now what?

The muffled sound of a woman’s voice answered, echoing as if out of a cave or a well. Jan simultaneously jumped and squeaked with fright. It’s simply a neighbor’s TV, she told herself, yet it had been timed perfectly as if responding to her question. Nah, she thought, glancing around nervously. There was no one there. She stood up and poked her head into the bedroom just in case. Nothing. Reassured that she was alone, she sat back down and breathed deeply.

Several moments passed in silence. Then the voice spoke again. It was louder this time and undeniably coming from inside her head.

Oh, great. Now I’m Jan of Arc.

She closed her eyes and concentrated. The words gradually became clearer. Then, she knew.

Her eyes flew open. Jan gasped, faltered, and almost toppled over. She felt like she was struggling to stand on the ceiling. It took her a moment to reorient herself.

It was all so simple, the solution to escaping the self-destructive pattern that had ensnared her since puberty.

Aha! Jan let out a triumphant cry and punched the air.

All it took was five wonderful words and Jan had her mantra.

The weekend’s tension slid off her like a silk robe cascading to the floor. She squared her shoulders to the mirror and looked herself straight in the eye. She knew that this time she was making a promise to herself she could keep. Her heart and her head had finally found something they could agree on.

I will never date again, Jan said defiantly. Never!

She gave her reflection a mock salute and marched herself into the kitchen. She grabbed a bottle of Glaceau Smart Water, chugged the much needed liquid refreshment, and executed a crisp about-face before marching herself back to the bathroom.

The new and improved Jan almost made it five minutes without sobbing in the shower. She blamed the Smart Water.

Damn rehydration!

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Wait, let me get this straight. Nichole’s scratchy voice clawed its way out of Jan’s cellphone speaker. "You are never, ever, going to date again? You?"

Jan shifted her weight on her La-Z-Girl recliner to sit up straight, nearly losing her towel in the process. She wanted to maintain a solid defensive position, even if Nichole was only on the other end of a phone line.

Yep, me. Not. Dating. Ever. Again. Okay?

Nichole snorted.

Jan crossed her arms in response and again fought to control her towel. Why must people always call right as I’m getting out of the shower? she asked herself. While still in the shower, she felt justified in sticking her head back under the water and pretending she had been hearing things. However if the phone rang once the water was off, she thought it rude not to answer. It wasn’t concern over what people thought of her that caused her bizarre behavior; it was what they might think that influenced how she perceived herself.

Nichole was dumbfounded. But that’s what you do. I’m the gorgeous man-eater, you’re the needy relationship addict, and Lisa is the brainy doormat. We’re the Three Fucked-Up Musketeers.

Nichole’s callous insight convinced Jan that she had made the right decision. A sense of calm straightened her spine.

Jan declared, Not anymore.

She heard Nichole gather her troops. So what, no marriage, no kids, no... Nichole paused melodramatically, "... sex?"

Jan hadn’t thought that far ahead. There must be a way to reconcile her goals with maintaining a lifestyle that wouldn’t drive her insane.

Well, I still haven’t completely given up hope of getting married, someday, but only if I meet someone instantly recognizable as ‘the One’, Jan explained wistfully. She sank comfortably into her favorite chair. It was the only piece of furniture in her apartment that she had chosen herself. The rest had been selected by an interior decorator her mother had hired to outfit the two bedroom apartment.

After rearranging her towel, Jan continued, But no more of this reckless, pointless, heartbreaking, time consuming insanity called dating. Jan vehemently spit each adjective out of her mouth. As for sex, we’ll see. She waved her hand dismissively as if she couldn’t be bothered to care.

You’re being absurd, Nichole said as she unconsciously adopted a faux-French accent, indicating that she was feeling particularly superior. Even though Nichole’s mother was French, Nichole had never been to France, hated French food, and could barely speak the language. She only acknowledged her heritage when defending her promiscuity by claiming she wasn’t a slut, she was French!

How would you know someone’s ‘the One’ without having dated him first? Nichole questioned.

Love at first sight? Lightning striking? A sign from God? A Tiffany’s engagement ring? Jan shrugged. It’ll probably never happen anyway. She allowed her body to sink further with her mood until she was curled up comfortably in her chair. She adjusted her towel until it covered all the required inches of her mostly-thin body. This was especially important since her chair was positioned next to a window in the prime location for checking out her male neighbors.

I’m too young to be worried about all that anyway, right?

Nichole snickered. First of all, you just got dumped and are clearly suffering from post-traumatic breakup stress disorder, she declared matter-of-factly. Though you’re right that you are too young to be worrying about marriage, foregoing regular sex until some make-believe prince comes and rides off with you into the sunset is crazy. Jan could almost hear Nichole’s foot stamping the ground, as if to squash the very idea.

Jan, look, women don’t reach their sexual peak until they’re, like, thirty, Nichole paused to reflect gleefully on her future. You can’t just put that process on hold. What if you never reach your full potential?

Jan frowned. It wasn’t like Nichole to sound concerned.

Well, it’s not like I have to be dating a guy to sleep with him. If I truly feel the urge, I can just head down to the bars or put up a flier at the student center. I’m sure I can find at least one non-disease-ridden guy to have sex with, even at a state school. Jan looked out her window where she could see the edge of San Diego State University’s campus, reaffirming that it still looked like a reputable institution and not a breeding ground for STDs. She sat up a little and peered down the street, searching for a glimpse of her favorite hangouts.

The frat houses, along with several local bars, were where Jan usually spent her Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. Though she didn’t actually attend classes at State, she often attended football games. She also spent a great deal of time at the Aztec food court and the billiards hall. Jan felt that her social activities, combined with her proximity to the campus, entitled her to claim honorary student status, and in the past, dating rights to the university’s male population.

Speaking of State, when exactly are you going to tell your mom you dropped out to go to massage school?

Jan gulped. I technically didn’t ‘drop out’ because I never officially started any classes, Jan rationalized. I just got accepted and decided to withdraw my application. I changed my mind. Men do it all the time.

She would have started her junior year with her friends last August, having completed her two years of community college the previous summer. She would have been a senior if she hadn’t taken a year off after high school to travel. She and Nichole were going to do Europe, but lost interest and instead did nothing.

Nichole snickered. You don’t really believe you could just sleep with a guy you don’t know. You always want to get to know him first, everything from his major to his entire life story. Sex to you is like a minimum six-week commitment.

Jan snapped, What’s wrong with getting to know someone first?

A long, drawn out sigh was her answer. Jan could picture Nichole with that pinched expression on her face that usually meant she thought someone was an idiot.

I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.

Jan immediately felt guilty. She opened her mouth to apologize for snapping.

Maybe you should just take a few more days to grieve the loss of your dysfunctional relationship before making any life-altering decisions.

Jan’s mouth slammed shut. It was typical of Nichole to get her victim to lower their defenses before going in for the kill.

Sometimes Jan asked herself, This is my best friend? What is wrong with me that this is the best I can do?

But then she would remind herself how hard it was to meet people in San Diego. She further rationalized that Nichole was like a sister anyway. Fighting was the girls’ way of showing they cared.

If it were me, I’d just grab the first hottie I saw, ride him until the sun set, and move on. But you’ve always preferred anxiety over acceptance, Nichole declared.

What! Jan jumped out of her chair, losing her towel in the process and flashing frat row. She blushed and immediately hit the deck before wrapping her towel back around herself.

Didn’t you say you had your first boyfriend in, like, second grade? continued Nichole, clearly oblivious to Jan’s sudden change in altitude. I don’t recall a time when you weren’t miserable because you were dumped. Or worse, you were miserable because the next guy was an even bigger jerk than the one before him. I bet within a week you’ll be trying to coerce some new guy into a relationship.

Coerce? So, now she was the CIA?

That’s bullshit! Jan pushed herself off the floor and started searching for her keys, intending to drive to Nichole’s and strangle her with the telephone cord.

Face it, girl, you’re just between boyfriends. Matt may have been your latest mistake, but he won’t be your last, Nichole finished triumphantly.

Jan hit the red end-call button to hang up and held it down until her phone turned off.

If she calls back, I’ll just say your battery died, Jan said to her Samsung phone. Though truthfully, Jan didn’t particularly care what Nichole thought at the moment. The ex’s name was Mike. Jan hadn’t dated a Matt in months.

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Talking to Nichole had drained Jan completely. She felt like she weighed three hundred pounds. Getting dressed seemed the logical move. She figured she could mope just as easily with her clothes on and she wouldn’t have to continue struggling with her towel.

Forty minutes later, thirty-six of which Jan spent staring into space, she had managed to drag herself, plus the additional 150 pounds, to her room. She put on a dark-green cami and matching lace panties. She was just finishing putting one leg through a pair of jeans when the doorbell rang. Jan cursed. She was at that exact midpoint where you can choose to either hop about as you hastily try to jam your other limb through the ever-elusive second pant leg, or undo your hard work by hopping to somewhere where you can sit down, yanking off the first pant leg, and subsequently starting over. Jan actually invented a third option whereby she fell over trying to do both simultaneously and landed with a loud Oomph on her bedroom floor.

At least I didn’t land on my face this time.

Hello? someone called uncertainly as Jan struggled to remember how to breathe. It took her a moment to identify Lisa’s voice while gasping for air. Lisa was Jan’s closest friend, as in she lived in the studio apartment across the hall. She often stopped by uninvited.

Great, Jan whispered from the floor as she wriggled the rest of the way into her jeans. She tried unsuccessfully to zip up her pants before realizing that these were her inspiration jeans, meant to inspire her to lose ten pounds, but instead had inspired her to buy different jeans.

Dammit, she screamed and savagely yanked off her pants.

Jan? came Lisa’s voice again, louder and with unmistakable concern.

I’ll be right there, Jan yelled as she threw her jeans into the corner and started digging through her clean clothes pile to find something better to put on.

What was left of her pride made Jan reject her sweatpants before pulling on her white, but not see through, thank you very much capri pants. She sprinted through her living room, paused to run her fingers through her hair, and threw open the door.

Lisa snorted with laughter when she saw Jan’s new do. She covered it with a cough.

Uh, hey, Lisa, Jan offered. It was clear Lisa didn’t approve of her hair.

Nichole called, Lisa said apologetically. Lisa was often apologetic, much to Jan’s annoyance. She was a natural peacemaker and had developed a shy nature from growing up a middle child between two vivacious siblings. Lisa had ceased being a middle child three years ago when her sisters had been killed in a car crash. Shortly afterward, she had moved in the apartment across from Jan. They talked for hours that first night. Lisa confided in Jan that even though paying rent was a huge financial struggle, she couldn’t continue living in the small two bedroom apartment she had shared with her parents. The tiny room that had once belonged to the three amigas had become huge and unwelcoming without her sisters. Jan had politely asked what the girls had been like, more out of a sense of duty than true interest. Lisa spoke proudly of her older sister, Maryann, who had wanted to become a doctor.