Free Finding It by Leah Marie Brown Page A

hosted by Brava TV. Her cousin, Carolena, is the newest Bravalebrity on some show called Ladies of London.”
    “I still don’t understand why you decided to spend the evening with some uppity snot instead of Luc.”
    The hinges on the bathroom door squeal and the explosive sound of electropop reverberates off the smoked glass partitioning the stalls.
    “She is not a snot!” I whisper, cognizant of the stranger on the other side of my stall door. “She’s really nice, actually. I think you’d like her.”
    Fanny mumbles something in French.
    Now it’s my turn to sit quietly and wait for Fanny to speak, because she will speak. Oh, she’ll speak.
    “What is going on, Vivian? Why are you letting some sleazy comedian stick his tongue down your throat when you should be with your boyfriend? Has your career become more important than your relationships?”
    An exhalation explodes from my lips as if someone delivered a swift uppercut to my solar plexus. I have experienced this sensation before—the breath-robbing, gut-wrenching blunt force trauma caused by one of Fanny’s carefully aimed verbal assaults. I remind myself that brutal bluntness and tactless honesty are merely byproducts of her French ancestry. After all, her sharp, pointed questions often needle my conscious and prod me toward deeper introspection.
    “Of course friendships matter more than my career,” I say, shifting my iPhone from one ear to the other.
    “Really? Because I can’t remember the last time we had a real, meaningful conversation. Ever since you took that GoGirl! job, you’ve been AWOL in the friend department.”
    Ouch! Another one-two jab to the solar plexus.
    “I’m sorry if you’ve felt neglected. I’ve tried to keep in touch with you. I called a bunch of times, but with the time difference and my crazy itinerary—”
    “Is Poppy on Facebook and Twitter?”
    “What?” Fanny’s abrupt change of subjects confuses me. “I don’t know if Poppy is on social media.”
    “Well,” Fanny sniffs. “I hope for her sake she has an active Facebook account. God knows, you can’t be one of Vivia’s friends unless you’re active on Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, and Instagram.”
    Ding! Ding! Sound the bell Mickey; Rocky is down for the count. This unprovoked boxing match has left me dazed and bewildered. I am flat on my back, prostrate and gasping for breath, but Fanny’s still doing her float-like-a-butterfly-sting-like-a-bee victory dance.
    “Being a magazine columnist, traveling the world, meeting interesting people. This is my dream.”
    “It’s not your dream, Vivian,” Fanny snaps. “Writing a novel about Mary Shelley is your dream—at least, it was before that stupid photo of you and Jett Jericho went viral and you became famous.”
    “Okay, maybe being a travel columnist for a chick magazine wasn’t my dream before, but it is now,” I argue, my voice rising. “I am living a dream, and I don’t want it to end. If you were a real friend, you would stand by me—”
    “Pffft.”
    “Don’t you pffft me!”
    “Why? What are you going to do? Send me a strongly worded tweet?”
    I let out a low, long whistle to keep from saying something I will regret. She’s starting to piss me off.
    “Look, Fanny,” I say, struggling to control my temper. “I get it. You’re not a touchy-feely, I-get-your-pain-sister-kinda gal, but do you have to be so blunt?”
    We remain silent for several seconds. When Fanny speaks again, some of the bitter has leeched from her tone.
    “I am worried about you, Vivian,” Fanny says, pronouncing my name with her nasal French accent. “You have a good thing with Luc—a great thing—and I am afraid you are taking it for granted. I saw how devastated you were after your breakup with Nathan. It killed me to see you in such pain. I supported you—”
    “I know you did, Fanny,” I say, the piss and vinegar gone from my tone. “And I appreciate it.”
    Fanny makes a noise low in her throat, a