{"product_id":"totally-and-completely-fine-isbn-9780593725177","title":"Totally and Completely Fine","description":"\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER • From the bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eFunny You Should Ask \u003c\/i\u003ecomes an inspiring romance novel about honoring the past, living in the present, and loving for the future.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn her small Montana hometown, Lauren Parker has assumed a few different roles: teenage hell-raiser, sister of superstar Gabe Parker, and most recently, tragically widowed single mother. She’s never cared much about labels or what people thought of her, but dealing with her grief over the loss of her husband, Spencer, has slowly revealed that she’s adrift in her own life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen she meets the devilishly handsome actor Ben Walsh on the set of her brother’s new movie. They have instant chemistry, and Lauren realizes that it has been far too long since someone has really and truly seen her. Her rebellious spirit spurs her to dive headfirst into her desire, but when a sexy encounter becomes something more, Lauren finds herself balancing old roles and new possibilities.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s still plenty to contend with: small-town rumors, the complications of Ben’s fame, and her daughter’s unpredictable moods. An unexpected fling seemed simple at the time—so when did everything with Ben get so complicated? And is there enough room in his life for the woman Lauren wants to be? Alternating between Lauren’s past with Spencer and her present with Ben, \u003ci\u003eTotally and Completely Fine\u003c\/i\u003e illuminates what it means to find life-changing love and be true to oneself in the process.“\u003ci\u003eTotally and Completely Fine\u003c\/i\u003e is the kind of book you have to read in one sitting! A dramatic, humorous, and sexy masterpiece that packs an emotional punch—I loved every page!”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Sarah Adams\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fans of Elissa Sussman’s \u003ci\u003eFunny You Should Ask \u003c\/i\u003emust drop everything and read her latest heart-stopping novel. This soaring, deliciously real romance explores the dizzying drama of falling in love while juggling grief, motherhood, and the singular messiness of starting over. It’s a totally addictive, stunning summer read!”\u003cb\u003e—Tia Williams, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eA Love Song for Ricki Wilde\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A brash, heartfelt, explosively beautiful novel about all the thorny paths life can take, and the tender comfort you can find when you’re brave enough to open up to the people who love you . . . Elissa Sussman’s portrayal of grief is honest, deep, and unflinchingly funny; if you’ve lost a loved one, this book will be a balm for your heart. \u003ci\u003eTotally and Completely Fine \u003c\/i\u003eis totally and completely wonderful.”\u003cb\u003e—Kate Stayman-London, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eFang Fiction\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eElissa Sussman\u003c\/b\u003e is the bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eOnce More with Feeling, Funny You Should Ask, \u003c\/i\u003eand three young adult novels\u003ci\u003e. \u003c\/i\u003eShe lives in Los Angeles with her husband and their many pets.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNow\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” Lena shouted, before running up the stairs and slamming her door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOver the years, I’d compiled a lengthy list of reasons why it truly f***ing sucked to be the widowed mother of a teen girl, but at the top of the list was being unable to turn to Spencer right now and ask: “Do you think she means it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe would have laughed. It would have been exactly the right response. Because I would have been asking him as a joke but also seriously.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe would have put his arms around me, pulled me close so my head could go right to the crook of his neck where it had always fit. He would have kissed my forehead. And then my butt would get a firm, supportive squeeze that was usually more for him than me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We can always send her back,” he would have said. “Do you remember where we put the receipt?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd if I had cried a little—because even though I knew logically that my teenage daughter was in the throes of the worst hormonal years of her life, and I had done and said far worse to my own mother at that age, it would still f***ing hurt—Spencer would have taken my face in his hands and swiped the tears away with his thumbs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Pizza will solve this,” he would have said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen he would have dug around in the freezer, humming to himself, probably Blink-182 or some other frat boy nineties song, and eventually exclaimed “aha!”—literally, “aha!”—when he found the ball of dough that he’d hidden there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe’d have homemade pizza that night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow there was one ball of dough left.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMore often than not, I’d get the desire to deep clean the whole house, and I’d take everything out of the fridge, tossing old lettuce, frosted ice cream, and sad, forgotten leftovers. The dough stayed. Untouched.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe had the recipe. Even if we didn’t, making pizza wasn’t rocket science.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut there had been a system. One that only Spencer knew. It had been born out of his years working at King Cheese Pizza during high school. He never did the whole tossing it up toward the ceiling and catching it—something he’d always refer to as a cheap trick—but he had a specific way of doing it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’d offered to teach me. Multiple times.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s what I have you for,” I’d say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt had been clever then. It was just tragic now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI looked up at Lena’s door, forever surprised that there were no cracks in the walls from the force of her repeated slams, and missed my husband so much I wanted to scream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was the problem with small towns, though. Nowhere to scream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI picked up the phone. It wasn’t the same—it wasn’t even close—but I knew that when Lena realized I’d ordered pizza—from King Cheese no less—she’d come down. We wouldn’t say anything about the fight. We’d eat and pretend that what had just happened had occurred in an alternate reality.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause this was all a dream—a sick, warped, normal-but-not dream—that I knew we were both still expecting to wake from. I didn’t take her temper tantrums seriously because part of me truly, stupidly, dangerously believed that it wasn’t real. That it wouldn’t stick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEverything was forgotten. Forgiven.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes, my mother would come over, and I’d see her notice the empty pizza box—or boxes, depending on how bad the week had gone—in the trash. She’d say nothing. She wouldn’t have to. Everything unsaid she pressed down in the thin, tense line between her lips. But I could see it. The disappointment. The worry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis wasn’t my first time at the grief rodeo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI knew my therapist would probably have some better suggestions for how to deal with the horrible whirling vortex of a teenager in grief, but I could barely talk about my relationship with my daughter, let alone outline all the various ways I was failing her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThree years in therapy and I was just now starting to talk enough to fill the entire hour.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy therapist knew how I felt about my mother-in-law (mostly annoyed, sometimes pitying). She knew how I felt about my job (I got to play with yarn and craft supplies every day, what wasn’t to love?). She knew how I felt about getting older (fine, if not for the occasional overheating and the lack of information on perimenopause).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe didn’t know that grief felt like the slowest-moving quicksand (what a ridiculous misnomer that word was), pulling me down inch by inch, rib by rib. She didn’t know the way it hurt—physically hurt—to think about Spencer, to imagine his last moments, to wonder if I’d even said I loved him that night. She didn’t know how there were evenings when I lay down in bed and couldn’t recall a single thing I’d done that day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe didn’t know that my head, my heart, my body, were still completely disconnected from one another and I couldn’t even remember what it was like to be a whole person.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI imagined Lena’s therapy sessions were even less informative. We Parker women didn’t talk about our feelings. Not the big ones.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRight now, in this moment, all I could manage was pizza.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt would have to be enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Come visit me on set,” Gabe had texted that morning. “We’ll have a good time.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA good time. I’d forgotten what that was like.By the bestselling author of Funny You Should Ask","brand":"Dell","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301165355237,"sku":"NP9780593725177","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593725177.jpg?v=1767742844","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/totally-and-completely-fine-isbn-9780593725177","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}