We’re constantly updating our reading list (even if we’re perpetually behind on our novel to-do list) regardless of the season. Now that The Bucket List, by Georgia Clark, is out today, we’re definitely adding this read to our ~bucket list~. The novel follows protagonist Lacey Whitman, after she’s diagnosed with a hereditary form of breast cancer. Clark’s novel follows Whitman as she creates a “book bucket list” prior to her life-saving surgery. Because we’re all about empowering stories of women who shamelessly life their lives for themselves, we’re sharing an excerpt from chapter three of this soon-to-be hit novel.
In this exclusive chapter reveal, Lacey has just found out she has the BRCA1 gene mutation and has gone to see her former roommate/best friend, Steph, at the loft where she used to live.
“Steph’s not here.” The guy who answered the door gestures inside the loft. “You’re welcome to wait.”
Ordinarily I’d tell him of course I’m welcome to wait, and do whatever the hell else I want, because I used to live here, I’m OG. But instead I perch stiffly on the end of the old sofa. It’s not as comfortable as I remember.
The boy hovers, unsure. “I’m Cooper, by the way.”
“Lacey.” I don’t offer my hand.
The boy—Cooper—is wearing a T-shirt that reads The Future Is Female Ejaculation. He’s my age, maybe a little older, maybe a little taller, with slightly scruffy sandy-blond hair and rimless glasses. He is the human equivalent of an NPR tote bag, and he is still hovering.
“I like your dress,” he offers. “Very . . . modern.”
Modern? Is that a veiled way of saying I look ridiculous? Or is Cooper a time traveler from the 1920s and about to ask me to take a turn around the garden? I can’t conjure a comeback.
He’s keeping a healthy distance from me as he asks, “Are you all right?”
I nod.
“Because you look kind of . . .”
My head snaps at him. “I look kind of what?”
He opens his mouth. I narrow my eyes. He changes tact. “Do you want a drink?”
I fold my arms tight across my chest. “I happen to have received some very upsetting personal news.”
“I’m sorry.” Cooper settles on the edge of the coffee table. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He sounds so . . . amicable. “So a drink? I have whiskey.
In my room.”
The loft is the same level of messy since the last girl moved out, but there seem to be more things in frames on the peeling walls. Everything you need to know about it is summed up by the spidery writing above the power switch in the kitchen: Don’t turn me off, I control the fridge. When the radiator is on, it sounds like someone is trapped in the basement. The loft’s comfortable state of disarray feels homey even though Astoria, Queens, hasn’t been my home for over a year. When I graduated from entry-level to junior sales last year, I moved into a pea-size studio in Williamsburg (don’t worry, nowhere near the waterfront). I could barely afford it but it felt like the adult thing to do. Steph, my old roommate, replaced me with a series of hot, single straight girls whom she fell for one by one and who all broke her big gay heart, one by one. The boy is a smart move. He’s got real furniture—a desk, a bookcase. A far cry from the collection of wood pallets and street finds I had to pass off as decor when I first moved to the city. Above his bed, a framed, signed black-and-white photograph. It’s a New York City subway car. From the graffiti, I’m guessing 1980s. Four people sit side by side. A drag queen, an older Latina, a black teenage girl with cornrows, and a businessman in a cheap suit. They are all spacing out, bored and relaxed, shoulders comfortably touching. It’s intimate and a little funny and incredibly human. His bedroom walls have been painted a crisp light blue. I’d call it a winter pastel: fresh and soothing. This whole room is soothing. I sink onto his neatly made futon. “It’s always so weird being back in this room.”
“How often are you back in this room?” Cooper scoops up some clothes off the floor.
There’s a splayed paperback on his bed, one of those New Agey books written by a monk with a serene smile. The Art of Being Happy Most of the Time. “Any good?”
He finds a bottle of Maker’s Mark wedged into a very full bookcase and pours two shots, one into a shot glass, one into a Cal Bears mug. “It’s interesting.”
I slip off my heels and draw my feet to my chest. Yesterday those heels made me happy. Yesterday feels so far away. “Are you unhappy, Cooper-the-new-roommate?”
“No.” He hands me the shot glass and settles into one of those absurdly large black office chairs. “Not overall. I just thought it could be useful to hear what the Buddhists had to say.”
“To the Buddhists.” I raise my glass. “I hope I don’t come back as anything icky.”
He tips his head to one side, curious. His T-shirt is old, soft, and I wish I was wearing something that cozy. We drink. I close my eyes. Still the taste of pickup trucks and off-brand pop and high school parties around bonfires where everything and nothing happened. As much as I try to retrain my palate, fermented grain mash always tastes like home. Like another life.
Cooper leans forward, hands clasped. “So, what happened to you today?” He sounds genuinely concerned.
I meet his gaze without hiding my fear. It’s the first time I’ve looked him properly in the eye.
Maybe I should tell him. Maybe I want to?
He doesn’t look away.
The front door slams. “Lace?” It’s Steph.
I blink and call, “In here!”
She appears in the doorway, cheeks flushed from the cold, glancing between me and Cooper in confusion. “I got your text. What’s wrong?”
The Bucket List by Georgia Clark is available for purchase now. Follow Georgia Clark on Instagram, Twitter and Face