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Stewart would do if her fiancé broke off their engagement? Ridiculous, since I doubt Martha would have lied about her sexual history. Martha would have given her fiancé a leather bound journal detailing her sexual encounters—complete with watercolor illustrations of positions used.
    “When my mother died,” Fanny said, “my father refused to make any major decisions for one year. At least wait until you complete your honeymoon to decide what to do with the ring, okay?”
    I look down at the sparkler on my finger—a brilliant three carat round cut diamond in the classic Tiffany Setting—and remember the night Nathan asked me to marry him. He dropped to one knee and slipped the ring on my finger before he even proposed. He promised he would love me forever. And I believed him.
    “Okay, I will wait to make a decision about the ring. Happy now?”
    “ Oui. ”
    “But Fanny?”
    “ Oui? ”
    “What am I going to do when the honeymoon is over?” Fear is clutching my throat and I have to struggle to get the words out. “Where will I live? How will I earn money?”
    “Will you do me a favor?”
    I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “Sure, what?”
    “Step out of your comfort zone, Vivian.”
    “What do you mean? Start wearing yellow? Let my dirty dishes pile up in the sink? Admit to everyone I meet I am not a virgin?”
    “That’s not quite what I had in mind, but it might be a good start.” Fanny chuckles.
    “Then what?”
    “I want you to forget about the future. Forget about making a good impression. Forget about being the perfect person. Just go on this trip and let life take you wherever it wishes for you to go. Can you do that?”
    “What if it wishes to take me to the unemployment line, bankruptcy, homelessness? I don’t want to end up sleeping in Golden Gate Park, soiling myself, and shanking some poor homeless guy for a stale donut.”
    Hysteria is looming closer, like a shadow growing and stretching. Maybe Fanny is right about keeping the ring; I might need to pawn it to buy baby wipes for all of my homeless peeps.
    “Don’t be silly, Vivian. You can live with me for as long as you need. No soiling. No shanking. No stale donuts, I promise.” She comes over and gives me a hug. “Now take a deep breath and repeat after me.”
    I take a deep breath.
    “I, Vivia Perpetua Grant…”
    I frown at Fanny.
    “Say it!” she snaps.
    “I, Vivia Perpetua Grant,” I repeat.
    “Solemnly swear…”
    “Solemnly swear.”
    “That I will get out of the driver’s seat and allow life to take me to uncharted territories. I will stop worrying about being in control and just relax. My new mantra is: Vivia is enough.”
    I blink several times. “That’s a lot to remember Fanny.”
    “Just agree.”
    “I agree.”
    “Good.” Fanny slips into her Burberry trench and grabs her purse. “I am going to pop home and pack a few things for our trip. I’ll grab some Mr. Foos and be back in a few hours. We’ll eat spicy chicken and watch crap TV. Sound good?”
    “Yes.” My emotions well up and I have to blink back tears. “Thanks, Fanny.”
    “Please,” she says, brushing off my thanks as if it were a piece of lint on her impeccable Armani trousers. “You’ll be all right on your own?”
    I nod.
    I should do something productive while Fanny’s gone, like search the net for a new apartment/job/man, but all I want to do is collapse in a heap on the floor. I wonder if pizza fumes ever asphyxiated anyone. Suicide by semolina and sausage.
    Going back to my bedroom, I cue Adele’s “Someone Like You ” on my iPod and listen to the lyrics.
    I sing along until my throat tightens. Turning Adele off, I slip out of my jeans, back into Nathan’s sweats, and fall into bed, pulling the covers over my head.
    Vivia is enough. Vivia is enough.
    Am I enough, just as I am? Nathan didn’t think so. I wish I could relax and just be myself, but it isn’t easy for me. I am always in my head, thinking about how I