"Thirty-nine. I won't be forty for another ten months," I said defensively, trying to keep a grip on my temper. I had spent every cent I had to go on this tour, and I absolutely refused to let one sour woman ruin what was sure to be the trip of a lifetime.

"Close enough to count. You're forty, with no man, no looks, and a dead-end job in some insignificant little town."

"Hey!" I objected. "You don't even know what I do. My job is quite nice."

"You said at the orientation that you were some sort of a secretary."

"I am the administrative manager for an animal shelter that specializes in elderly pets who have been displaced," I answered, my fingers curling into fists beneath the tabletop. "It's a very rewarding job!"

"I'm sure it is," she answered with a half sneer. "But there's hardly any room for advancement, is there?"

I gritted my teeth and said nothing. I didn't have to defend myself or my job to this harpy.

"Face it," Denise said, grabbing my arm as she leaned forward across the table. "Women like us get the shaft our whole lives. You may think that there is a man out there for you, a Mr. Wonderful who will be everything you want, but there isn't. Look around you, Pia. Look at who has all the handsome men—it's the pretty ones, the skinny ones, the ones who don't give a fuck about anything but getting what they want. They've got no morals and don't care who knows it."

"I don't buy that," I said, jerking my arm out of her grip. "I know a lot of nice women who get men. Sometimes it just takes a while; that's all."

"Something your mommy told you?" she asked, her words whipping me like a scorpion's tail.

"I really don't think—"

"No, of course you don't. That's because everyone is so politically correct these days. But let's cut the crap, shall we, and get real. We're the last pick on the volleyball team, Pia. We get the leftovers. I can tell you don't like to admit it, so I'll prove it to you." She scooted around in her chair, waving a hand toward the stage.