A party like this isn't about the surprise factor. It's about someone going to so much trouble that it just... overwhelms you.

It really is the year 2007. Which means I must be... Oh my God. I'm twenty-eight. I'm old.

I don't think anyone sits down and thinks, 'I know, I'll be a chick-lit writer.' You write the book that you want to write and then other people say, 'Oh, that's chick-lit.' You say, 'Okay.' But it's not like you look around and go to a careers fair and there will be someone at the chick-lit author stand.

My life has changed, and I'm changing with it.

Except...I do. Of course I do. Because as his hands gently cup my waist, I don't make a sound. As he swivels me around to face him, I don't make a sound. I don't need to. We're still talking. Every touch he makes, every imprint of his skin is like another word, another thought, a continuation of our conversation. And we're not done yet. Not yet.

Honestly, shopping beats therapy, anytime. It costs the same and you get a dress out of it.

You don't always have to know who you are. Sometimes, it's enough just to know what to do next.