“Hilarious and full of heartwarming, familial honesty, Molly’s latest was a joy to read.” – Jamie Ford, New York Times bestselling author of Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet
“Molly Campbell’s Crossing the Street is a funny, warm, and charming novel. It was such a pleasure to get lost in this world, and in Campbell’s capable hands.”
– Julie Klam, New York Times bestselling author of The Stars in Our Eyes
“Crossing the Street is a compelling story about all the different people in our lives who become family. Campbell draws us into her characters with heart and humor and with a unique voice that will stay with me for a long time. I can’t wait to read her other books!”
– Camille Di Maio, author of The Memory of Us and Before the Rain Falls
“I am crazy about Molly Campbell’s writing. Her characters are funny and real. Her storytelling is fresh and poignant. She breaks the rules and looks fabulous doing so. Crossing the Street is a surprising and unpredictable, thoroughly enjoyable read!”
– Amy Impellizzeri, award-winning author of Lemongrass Hope and The Secrets of Worry Dolls
“Crossing the Street is a quick, entertaining, and original story about the challenges of knowing what to want in a world filled with expectations and pressure. Molly Campbell in her signature irreverent humor has written a novel that is funny, warm and sure to get readers thinking about how both fate and choice create our lives, as long as we are open to both.”
– Ann Garvin, USA Today bestselling author of I Like You Just Fine When You’re Not Around
“Crossing the Street, Molly Campbell’s funny and endearing novel, is about the intersections of our lives, mapping characters as they cross from childhood to adulthood, from middle to old age, from isolation to community, and from sadness to joy. We find connection, humor and love in the oddest, strangest and most gloriously unexpected places, as Crossing the Street illustrates with warmth and generosity.”
– Gina Barecca, author of If You Lean In, Will Men Just Look Down Your Blouse? and Babes in Boyland
This wasn’t the way Beck Throckmorton had planned it. She wasn’t expecting to find herself in her thirties writing erotica and making flat whites for a living while she stewed over that fact that her ex had wound up with her sister. She never saw herself living in a small suburban Ohio town with an octogenarian neighbor best friend. And she definitely wouldn’t have imagined the eight-year-old great-granddaughter of that friend turning her world upside down.
As summer comes around, Beck’s life is unsettled in every way. And that’s before the crazy stuff starts: the sister taunting her with her pregnancy, the infuriatingly perfect boyfriend, the multiple trips to the emergency room. The needy, wise-beyond-her-years little girl finding places in her heart that Beck didn’t even know existed.
Beck has found herself at an emotional intersection she never anticipated. And now it’s time to cross the street.
“Molly Campbell writes with such compassion, wit, and humor that you can’t help but fall in love with Beck and, of course, the spunky, intuitive, brilliant Bob. Crossing the Street is completely heart-wrenching with an ending that will make you ugly-cry.”
– Katie Moretti, New York Times bestselling author of The Binds that Tie
Molly D. Campbell is a two-time Erma Bombeck Writing Award winner and the author of one previous novel, Keep the Ends Loose. Molly blogs at http://mollydcampbell.com/. Also an artist, Molly’s work can be found at http://www.cafepress.com/notexactlypicasso. Molly lives in Dayton with her accordionist husband and four cats.
“A gem of a novel about being open to life and its possibilities when you just don’t wanna. Campbell serves up the mysteries of yearning, envy, and female desire with a perfect side of tenderness and wit.”
– Karen Karbo, award-winning author of the New York Times Notable Book The Diamond Lane
From Crossing the Street:
My life isn’t exactly bright and shiny. My name is Rebecca Throckmorton. I live in a small town, and I muddle along as best I can. Four scenes from my world:
Scene one: I am at the grocery store. Aimlessly wandering down the produce aisle, looking at the grocery list, as usual, in my mother’s elegant hand. What the hell is a rutabaga, and why do we need one? Suddenly, I see my father, who is long gone from our family—divorce. He is wearing a gold golf shirt, his khaki slacks, crisp and unwrinkled. His hair from the back is a bit silvery, as I am sure it would be after being away from our family for all these years. My heart lurches—He’s back! He came back! I abandon my cart and nearly bowl over a woman studying kiwis, knocking the one in her hand to the ground. I don’t even stop to apologize, because my dad. I come up behind him, breathe in his cologne—yup, Eau de Sauvage. I reach out to touch his shoulder, and he turns around. I gasp. The man is definitely not Dexter Throckmorton. Instead of a Roman nose, this guy has a schnozz. There is awful hair growing out of his nostrils. His eyes are not velvety and black, like my father’s—they are a watery gray and clouded with cataracts. He hears me gasp and asks, “Do I know you?” I abandon the rutabaga and rush out of the store, grocery list still crushed between my fingers.
Scene two: My sister’s wedding. I am wearing a sleeveless, misty green satin dress with two small lines of silver sequins along the bodice. The misty green is reflected in my coloring and makes me look slightly vomitous. I feel about to vomit, since my sister Diana is marrying my former boyfriend, Bryan Dallas, who stands at the end of the aisle, beaming, his horn rims polished so highly I worry that he might start a fire with their refractions into the balcony. As D comes down the aisle on my mother’s arm (see divorce, above), my mother looking for all the world like an aging Audrey Hepburn in a slender tube of taupe silk, I look down at my bouquet and stifle the impulse to hurl it in my sister’s smug, highly-made-up-with-false-eyelashes-and-dewy-lip-gloss face.
Scene three: Me and my girlfriend, Ella Bowers. I sit with her in front of the TV. We like to watch really old reruns of Lawrence Welk that I found for her on the Family Network. Ella pats down her soft, fluffy lavender white hair, and every time Myron Floren comes on comments how much her mother “just loved that man and his accordion.” I nod and agree, because I don’t intend to hurt her feelings—Ella is eighty-three, and I don’t want her to get riled up and have a stroke. I notice my cut glass tumbler of iced tea is empty, and I offer to go into the kitchen of her cozy bungalow and get us each some more.
Scene four: My day job and what really pays the bills. I get home from my part-time job at Starbucks at four. I stretch, try to do the downward facing dog, and fail, as usual, about three quarters of the way down. My cat, Simpson, ambles over for a purr, and then I go and pee, change into sweats, and sit down at my computer, where I pound out a scene in which four orgasms occur within the space of twenty minutes between Travis and Crystal, who are extremely talented genitally. My latest book, Boys on the Beach, is under contract and due at my publisher in two months. When I think about this, sweat pools into the cups of my bra, because I am behind schedule, and erotica pays the bills, not venti lattes.
There you have it.