Reinventing Mona by Jennifer Coburn Page B

sweetheart.” My Romeo laughed. “The people, they love you.” He motioned to the crowd.
    “Oh, they want weed,” I dismissed.
    * * *
    As I relived last Christmas season, my only audience was the Pacific Ocean, quietly cheering me with its crashing waves. I raised my hands above my head. “Thank you. Thank you, Coronado. You’ve been great!”

Chapter 12
    Greta gave me two gifts for Christmas and my birthday—both self-help books. Getting to Know You: A Woman’s Guide to Self-Discovery and A Road Map to the Soul . “Please take these in the spirit I give them,” Greta half apologized as I was unwrapping the books. At least she had the good sense to give them to me privately, and not humiliate me in front of her fabulously well-adjusted family. Their book selections were certainly titles like Being Perfect in an Imperfect World and We’re Okay; They’re Not . Greta laughed at my characterization of her family. “Every family has its own issues,” she said. “I’m not exactly the daughter my parents expected.”
    Greta’s family didn’t seem terribly disappointed with the way she turned out. There were at least a half dozen toasts celebrating her return to San Diego and her overdue breakup. Greta seemed uncomfortable the moment Terry’s name came up. Her breath seemed trapped in her lungs and she shot her mother a look that pleaded to change the topic.
    It had been more than a month since Greta returned from Texas and I still had no idea what had gone so wrong in her relationship that she had to leave. My guess was that Terry was unwilling to marry her, and after three years together, Greta probably realized it was never going to happen. If Adam and I shared so much history in one city, it would be hard to stay there with the constant reminders of places we’d gone and things we’d done together. Then, of course, there would be the biggest reminder of all—him.
    After dinner we sat in front of an understated Christmas tree decorated with small white bulbs and tasteful glass balls buried in the branches. Flames in the fireplace struggled to stay alive and chattering became quieter and less frequent. A Very Perry Christmas filled the air as Greta’s mother handed us each a glass mug of spiced cider to “take the chill from our bones,” she said, laughing.
    “Would you ever consider playing soccer again?” Greta asked.
    I laughed. “If you called what I did in high school playing, then no. I’ve never considered it.”
    “You weren’t that bad.” She teasingly shoved me.
    I was a second alternate fullback, and the three times I actually made it onto the field during a soccer game, our opponents whipped right past me. Sometimes I lost my balance and fell just watching the other players running by. All the faking this way and cutting that way was dizzying. Our school made room on sports teams for every girl who wanted to play because extracurricular activities looked good on college applications. Greta was our starting goalkeeper. In fact, she was recruited by several colleges and earned a full scholarship for soccer.
    “Why do you ask?”
    “I’m joining a women’s league and thought you might want to get into it again. It might be good for you.”
    “Better mental health through soccer?” I joked.
    “Well, the goals are loftier than marrying a stranger,” was Greta’s retort. “Seriously, it’ll be fun. You’ll meet nice women, get some exercise. Come on, you always say you have no life. Get a life. It’s a social thing. No one’s expecting you to be a star.”
    “I don’t know,” I hedged.
    “When I signed up, a woman on the team told me that in addition to their regular games, they have scrimmages for women who aren’t able to join the team for whatever reason. Why not give that a try?”
    I scrunched up my nose.  “I’ll watch you play.”
    “Stop watching and start doing. Isn’t that what this early retirement is supposed to be all about?”
    Soccer sounded about as