“That’s right!” Rebecca says. “He was a good sailing teacher, wasn’t he?”
“I got sick. I threw up over the side,” Josh says.
“You did, didn’t you?” Rebecca laughs. “I’d forgotten that.”
“Next summer I’m going to science camp,” says Josh.
“Good on ya,” Flynn says.
Leaving the coffee shop, I walk across a small park to my car. The grass is as sodden as a sponge. Despite the rain, I wince at the glare; all the buildings in town are three stories or less, and the sky is huge and white. If I had an event tonight, I would be worrying about contingency plans: cancellations, rolls of plastic under the coat racks, rented umbrella stands. But I don’t have an event tonight, or any night. I don’t have any plans at all.
I think about that shared look, the questions forming in my own head. Is there something I should know?
Maybe I ought to be worrying about contingency plans.
CHAPTER 11
Rich kisses me good-bye as he leaves for work. I lie in his bed for a while longer, gazing out at the sun through the window, as distinct as a lemon in the milky sky. Ever since we went up to Cadillac a few days ago, he has been attentive and sweet. He brought home groceries last night and made dinner (well, Ragú and ziti), and later, when I slipped into bed beside him, he turned on his side toward me, ran his hand down my hip, and murmured, “I could get used to this.” Afterward, when he drifted to sleep, I started to think. The charmless apartment, the seemingly deliberate cultural ignorance, the frat-boy proclivities—none of that really matters. He doesn’t fit my ideal—so what? He’s a nice, solid guy. Maybe my preconceptions are the real problem.
Maybe, in fact, he really is my love match after all.
I step into the shower, lather up with his manly deodorant soap, which I found repellent several days ago but now kind of like, wash my hair with his Suave shampoo that gives me static cling, and dry off.
As I’m standing there in my towel in the bathroom, the telephone rings. I run over to the phone by Rich’s bed and pick it up, figuring it’s probably him. “Hello?”
“Hello?” a female voice echoes.
“Hello? Who is this?” I ask.
“Who is this ?”
“Angela. I’m—” I hesitate, wondering what I am “—a friend of Rich’s.”
“He never mentioned you,” she says.
“And who is this?”
“Becky.”
“He didn’t tell me about you, either.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, would he?” she says.
I don’t say anything, just stand there dripping, breathing into the phone.
“Fucking asshole,” she says. “Just tell him Becky called. And it’s the last time. I’m not calling again.”
There’s a click, then a dial tone, and I realize she has hung up on me.
I look at the phone as if it itself insulted me. Then I place it back in its holster. Becky. Why am I not surprised?
I finish drying off and open Rich’s closet door, looking for my robe. And then it occurs to me that if there’s an Angela and a Becky, there might well be an entire alphabet of women I don’t know about. I glance around the closet, poking at a few empty shoe boxes and a banker’s box, full of bills, on the floor. I don’t feel guilty or self-righ teous, just strangely calm. Pushing aside a pile of sweaters on the shelf above the hanging bar, I find a sheaf of white paper in the far back. I take it down.
As I begin leafing through the pile, I find e-mail after e-mail. Kissandtell. Women’s profiles, with pictures. DogLover, Blondy, Abgirl, CutiePie. At the top of the pile is a haiku:
Your name is real cute
I like Blondy with a Y
When can I see you?
The blood rises to my head. Riffling through the pages, I find e-mails before, during, and after our correspondence, a parallel cosmos of haikus and sweet nothings. Apparently he sent two other women the same haiku he sent to me, one that I thought perfectly captured the absurdity of our situation:
You’re so far away
I’m
“I got sick. I threw up over the side,” Josh says.
“You did, didn’t you?” Rebecca laughs. “I’d forgotten that.”
“Next summer I’m going to science camp,” says Josh.
“Good on ya,” Flynn says.
Leaving the coffee shop, I walk across a small park to my car. The grass is as sodden as a sponge. Despite the rain, I wince at the glare; all the buildings in town are three stories or less, and the sky is huge and white. If I had an event tonight, I would be worrying about contingency plans: cancellations, rolls of plastic under the coat racks, rented umbrella stands. But I don’t have an event tonight, or any night. I don’t have any plans at all.
I think about that shared look, the questions forming in my own head. Is there something I should know?
Maybe I ought to be worrying about contingency plans.
CHAPTER 11
Rich kisses me good-bye as he leaves for work. I lie in his bed for a while longer, gazing out at the sun through the window, as distinct as a lemon in the milky sky. Ever since we went up to Cadillac a few days ago, he has been attentive and sweet. He brought home groceries last night and made dinner (well, Ragú and ziti), and later, when I slipped into bed beside him, he turned on his side toward me, ran his hand down my hip, and murmured, “I could get used to this.” Afterward, when he drifted to sleep, I started to think. The charmless apartment, the seemingly deliberate cultural ignorance, the frat-boy proclivities—none of that really matters. He doesn’t fit my ideal—so what? He’s a nice, solid guy. Maybe my preconceptions are the real problem.
Maybe, in fact, he really is my love match after all.
I step into the shower, lather up with his manly deodorant soap, which I found repellent several days ago but now kind of like, wash my hair with his Suave shampoo that gives me static cling, and dry off.
As I’m standing there in my towel in the bathroom, the telephone rings. I run over to the phone by Rich’s bed and pick it up, figuring it’s probably him. “Hello?”
“Hello?” a female voice echoes.
“Hello? Who is this?” I ask.
“Who is this ?”
“Angela. I’m—” I hesitate, wondering what I am “—a friend of Rich’s.”
“He never mentioned you,” she says.
“And who is this?”
“Becky.”
“He didn’t tell me about you, either.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, would he?” she says.
I don’t say anything, just stand there dripping, breathing into the phone.
“Fucking asshole,” she says. “Just tell him Becky called. And it’s the last time. I’m not calling again.”
There’s a click, then a dial tone, and I realize she has hung up on me.
I look at the phone as if it itself insulted me. Then I place it back in its holster. Becky. Why am I not surprised?
I finish drying off and open Rich’s closet door, looking for my robe. And then it occurs to me that if there’s an Angela and a Becky, there might well be an entire alphabet of women I don’t know about. I glance around the closet, poking at a few empty shoe boxes and a banker’s box, full of bills, on the floor. I don’t feel guilty or self-righ teous, just strangely calm. Pushing aside a pile of sweaters on the shelf above the hanging bar, I find a sheaf of white paper in the far back. I take it down.
As I begin leafing through the pile, I find e-mail after e-mail. Kissandtell. Women’s profiles, with pictures. DogLover, Blondy, Abgirl, CutiePie. At the top of the pile is a haiku:
Your name is real cute
I like Blondy with a Y
When can I see you?
The blood rises to my head. Riffling through the pages, I find e-mails before, during, and after our correspondence, a parallel cosmos of haikus and sweet nothings. Apparently he sent two other women the same haiku he sent to me, one that I thought perfectly captured the absurdity of our situation:
You’re so far away
I’m
Similar Books
