Proficient New Yorker that I am, I can navigate the subway like no one else, or hail a cab with a whistle in no time flat.

Seriously, I’m that good.

Standing in front of my apartment building with my four suitcases, today I’m practically on fire. Within mere seconds of my arm flying up and my hand waving in the air, a cab pulls to the curb. Then he looks at all of my bags and drives away.

“Hey, wait. I need a ride!” I yell.

Like he cares. He’s long gone.

After three more failed attempts, I finally bribe one of the drivers with a hefty tip.

So much for proficiency.

Jockeying the luggage around, the reluctant driver manages to squeeze the two oversized suitcases in the trunk, one of the smaller bags in the front seat, and the last one in the seat next to me.

When I get in, I shove it over a little to buckle my seat belt. That’s when the hem of my skirt catches on the cracked vinyl seat and tugs the fabric up a little too high on my bare legs.

Not quite panty-showing short, but close.

Fortunately, the driver doesn’t seem to notice the flash I just gave him. “Where to?” he asks.

“Newark Airport,” I tell him, and lean against the seat feeling a little sadder than I thought I would.

As soon as the driver hits the Lincoln Tunnel, I start second-guessing my decision to leave the city I grew up in. From financially secure for the first nine years and practically the complete opposite for the last fifteen, it still has always been a constant for me.

Watching the skyline fade away once we’re out, I can’t help but recall how difficult that transition was.

Money sure changes how people act around you.

My father had lost everything in the dot-com bubble. He was a self-made man who built an empire, lived life large, and then skipped out on my mother and me when it all crumbled. To this day, I have no idea where he is, nor do I care.

Luckily for my mother and me, the California retailer Simon Warren had decided to launch their women’s division on the East Coast around that same time and moved their head of operations, Katherine May, to New York City. Katherine was in desperate need of help, and she hired my mother as her personal assistant.

That’s how I met Maggie—Katherine is her mother.

Such an amazing woman.

Then, when I was sixteen, my mother died unexpectedly of an aortic dissection—an aneurysm. I was left alone. And it was Maggie’s mother who stepped up and took me in. I have no idea where I would have gone had she not. More than likely, I would have had to move in with some mean, distant relative I’d never met. Thank God that didn’t happen.

I stayed with the Mays until high school graduation. As soon as Maggie and I moved into the college dorms, Katherine headed back to Los Angeles. I think she held out in the city for longer than she wanted to. For Maggie and me. I owe her so much.

Just as the cabdriver approaches the airport, my cell rings and jolts me from my memories. As I grab it from my purse, Maggie’s name flashes across the screen. “Hey,” I answer.

“Hey,” she says back. “Where are you?”

Horns beep as the cab speeds down the road. “On my way to the airport.” I answer with a smile, and a secret from last night that I decided to wait to tell her about in person. She’s going to freak when I tell her I was in the same room with a couple that was, well, doing what they were doing.

“Good, then you have some time,” she says.

Wary, I check the time on my phone. “Not that much,” I tell her with a little hiccup. I should not have taken that swig of soda that I drank for extra caffeine just before I left. Carbonation really does funky things to my body.

For some odd reason, the sound makes me think of Cam. Was he really an asshole or had Megan with a B done something to hurt him? There’s something about him I can’t forget. For a moment last night, I thought I shared a kinship with Megan with a B, but maybe it was really with Cam. It was the sound of his voice, angry and broken at the same time, that I can’t let go of. Reminds me of me, I guess.

Maggie laughs and I push the thoughts of the man I’ll never meet out of my mind. “Okay, I think it’s safe to say you have five minutes.”

Eyeing the miles of taillights ahead, I answer with, “I’m sure I do. Why?”

“Did you make that playlist I told you to?”

I bite my tongue so I won’t make a snarky comment. “Yes, Maggie, I made the playlist.”

There’s a chortle-like noise coming through the line. “Let me hear one of the songs.”

She doubts me.

But I know better.

Maggie is a girl you never say no to because if you do, she’ll beat you down until you say yes.

Tapping my screen, I pull up the futile task she assigned me to complete to help lift me out of my funk, and then I hit play. Sounds of Madonna fill the cab. A little horrified, I quickly hit stop.

“Oh, that’s good,” she says. Then adds, “I hope that dreadful song isn’t included?”

She means “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” I skip telling her it was my first karaoke choice last night. “No, it’s not, but I have to admit, I had a hard time with this playlist.”

“What?”

“I know it’s almost impossible to believe that I’d ever put both the words hard and list in the same sentence.” At least I’m admitting it.

Almost suspiciously, she asks, “How many songs are on it?”

“Twelve,” I say under my breath. “And you can hear them all when I get there.”

This time she claps. “Yay, I can’t wait. Now it’s time to move on.”

“Move on?”

Oh no.

“Yes. I’m going to be emailing you something shortly, and I want you to get started on it right away.”

Reluctance moves through me. “What is it?”

Maggie and I were not only childhood friends, but also college roommates at the Fashion Institute of Technology. Opposites in so many ways, but alike in others. I think that’s why we get along so well even after being separated by thousands of miles for the past twelve months. The thing is, she hasn’t changed, but I have, and not for the better.

Maggie tried hard to make it work after college in New York City, but she was a California girl at heart, and after losing her tenth retail job, she hung it up and moved to the unoccupied bungalow her grandmother had left her on Laguna Beach. Now, she’s a lifeguard and lives life for the fun of it.

Not exactly all grown up, but it works for her, for now, anyway. And I love her no matter what. She’s not only my best friend; she’s my greatest champion. But that also means she knows everything about me, and sometimes she has this need to push me beyond my threshold.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she offers up as bait.

Knowing better, I don’t take it. “That’s kind of vague. I’ve said a lot.”

“You know what I’m referring to, Makayla Alexander. About you being worried that everyone is going to think you’re an uptight city girl.”

I heave a heavy sigh. “Oh, that.”

She giggles. “Yes, that. And I have a solution to ease your worries.”

This time I laugh. “You have a solution? What? Do you think you’re going to fix me?”

“Makayla, you’re not broken. All this shit is in your head because of Sebastian, that fucker.”

Tipping my head, I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to cry at the mention of my ex-fiancé. “Maggie, we’ve talked about this. It’s not in my head. It’s a fact, and no matter what I do, everyone is going to figure it out.”

She doesn’t argue, but her voice grows softer. “That right there, missy, is why you’re going to prove to yourself you’re not that uptight bitch you think you are.”

The cabdriver slams on his brakes and I’m jerked forward. Abandonment of the city has its advantages because right now, his crazy driving skills don’t bother me in the least. “And how exactly am I going to do that?” I ask with another hiccup. Damn soda.

“Glad you asked. You’re going to do that by completing every item on the list.”

“The list?” My ears perk up.

“Yes, the list.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

She had me at the word list, and she knows it.

“I’m emailing it to you now. Look it over and be ready to talk about it when you arrive. See you soon. ’Bye.”

“Maggie, wait.” It’s too late. She’s gone.

Moments later I receive a notification that I have mail.

Just then the cabdriver exits the turnpike; I go flying across the backseat and smash against my suitcase. My phone drops to the floor. Not again. Please not again. When I finally manage to find it on the grimy floor and pick it up, I open the email. All the body says is, “You can do this. One month. You so got it.”

Clicking on the attachment, a nicely numbered list populates my screen.

How well she knows me.

I read it.

Sinking into the seat in embarrassment, I die a little more with each passing item. The list comes complete with notes. I scoff as I read them and laugh a little, too. Maybe I even throw in an eye roll here and there. When I finish reading it, I question my ability to complete the entire thing, but in my heart I know each item is doable.

Especially after last night.

With enough courage.

And maybe with a whole lot of wine, I can accomplish most of the items.

The driver stops in front of the airport. As I get out and step into the chilly night air of May, I breathe it in and smile.

While I wait for the driver to unload my bags, I look down at my phone. This list is designed for me to prove to myself that I am smart, sexy, and able to do anything I put my mind to. It also has a whole lot of Maggie infused in it. Someone I used to be a lot more like until I lost sight of that girl somewhere between college and the real world.

Once I’ve given the driver a hefty tip, I check in and unload my luggage, and then I take a minute to sit down.

Moving is a big step. And I’m doing it. I’m really doing it.

With that, I read the list one more time.

1. Wear a bikini (out in public)
2. Have sex with someone you don’t know (it will feel better than you think)
3. Fuck on the beach (crabs won’t bite you)
4. Join the Mile High Club (it’s fun and exciting, and besides, you will never see the guy again. Come to think of it, it should be number one. Do it tonight. Here’s a little extra advice: Mark your target. Make eye contact. Give a small smile. A wink if need be. Then, when the plane is quiet, nod in the direction of the lavatory. The rest will take care of itself.)
5. Get drunk and let someone else worry how you’re going to get home (and not me—you know I’m not responsible)
6. Give a guy the best blow job of his life and make sure he knows it (here’s a tip: the harder you suck, and the more you moan, the more it will help convince him)
7. Get a vibrator (and use it)
8. Don’t plan your day for the next thirty days (I promise you will be plenty busy)
9. Take a nude selfie (and look at it whenever you doubt yourself)
10. Read an erotic romance novel in public (you might learn a thing or two, and there’s no need to be embarrassed)

Ten things to accomplish in a month.

How hard can it be?

Check them off the list, one by one.

No problem.

I’m good at that.

The song I sang last night comes to mind and I find myself singing it: “Clap along, if you feel like happiness is the truth.”

And I do.

I’ve so got this!