The Gals — Metra Farrari

Meet Ryan and Greta—one of literature’s legendary intergenerational friendships.

If age is a number, Ryan is 28 to Greta’s 72.
If age is a state of mind, Greta is New York and Ryan is pure Oklahoma.
If character defines generation, Greta is the millennial while Ryan is more of the boomer…

Take a sneak peek into Ryan and Greta’s friendship:

Excerpt from page 9:

Taking a good look at her, Ryan asked, “Are you wearing lipstick?”

“Wait until you see him, Ryan. That is one son-of-a-sexy-botanist,” Greta stage-whispered.

“Doesn’t even make sense . . .” Ryan muttered, rolling her eyes.

“His name is Cyrus. He’s a hunk and a half! He’s from MIT. Doctoral program. His eyes, Ryan. Windex blue. You two . . . I see it happening,” Greta babbled, nodding furiously.

Ryan blushed in spite of herself. “This is business, Greta. Trying to save the world here. No time for . . . that.” She lazily flicked her hand as though swatting a fly.

“There is ALWAYS time for . . . that,” Greta retorted, wiggling her penciled-in brows up and down.

Ryan gave her an inquisitive look. “Did you have an Irish coffee this morning?”

“’Course not,” Greta said loftily, walking back to her desk. And quietly added, “Just a nip of Bailey’s. Nothing to get your granny panties in a bunch over.”

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Excerpt from page 19:

When Cyrus was out of earshot, Ryan hissed, “Greta, I know full well you were listening to every single word behind the lab door.”

Greta whipped around, all four feet eleven inches of her, and feigned surprise, then dismay. “Why, I never! I’m busting my hump there to make sure your lab stays afloat, and you have the gall to insinuate I was ear hustling?”

Ryan sighed. She didn’t want to reward Greta’s behavior, but of all people, she was the one the botanist wanted to squeal to and dish with. “On a scale of one to Matthew McConaughey, what’d you rate him?”

Smiling broadly, Greta strolled toward the breakroom. “Uff da! He was off the charts.”

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Excerpt page 67:

Greta huffed. “That cat. He kept me up all night long, Ryan.”

“Why?”

“Well, I went into your room to drop off your clean clothes . . .”

Ryan frowned. “I put them away before I left . . .”

Greta pursed her lips. “OK. I may have been trying on that tie-dye crop top you never wear.”

Ryan giggled. “He totally busted you!”

“Yes, and he would not let me forget it. Every time I was about to fall asleep, he’d shoot out of my closet like a rocket, leaving behind a trail of clothes. Every single time, Ryan. What should I do?”

“Maybe keep your paws off my stuff,” Ryan joked. She squinted at the screen. “Wait a second, Greta. Are you wearing the crop top right now?”

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