Читать книгу The Next Best Thing - Kristan Higgins - Страница 13

“TRUST ME, IT WORKS WONDERS.” Parker surveys me through narrowed green eyes.

“You can’t be more than a size six,” I say, looking at the…thing…in Parker’s hand. “I’ll never trust you.”

We’re in my room, and to my chagrin, I seem to have put on a few pounds recently. Too many Twinkies, too many Ho Hos, my substitute for the desserts I bake myself, which I can’t seem to eat. Corinne, nursing Emma, watches as Parker turns back to my closet, which is one of those fabulous California thingies—shelves, drawers, racks. The woiks.

“Why haven’t I ever seen you in any of this stuff?” Parker asks, taking out a pair stiletto heels. Oh, I remember those! My first pair of Stuart Weitzman shoes. So pretty. “Do you ever wear these?”

“Well…I’m a baker,” I say. “Those bad boys would kill me. But I like them, sure. I’m a woman, after all.”

“These all have tags on them!” Parker exclaims, falling upon my sweater section.

“Right,” I murmur.

“You shouldn’t spend money if you aren’t going to wear them,” Corinne lectures.

“Well, I don’t want to be like Mom,” I say in my own defense. My mother, after all, dresses more like Coco Chanel than a woman who works in a tiny bakery. But yes, I have a secret weakness for clothes, and looking in my closet, I see Corinne’s point. Clothes, shoes, belts and scarves bulge out toward the room as if imploring me to wear them. So many pretty colors, so much gorgeous fabric—the seductive smoothness of leather, the shimmering silk, the soft comfort of cashmere. Most of that stuff has never been worn. Which, yes, seems pretty dumb.

“Is this La Perla?” Parker demands, yanking a bra out of a drawer.

“Isn’t it the prettiest?” I ask.

Parker, whose trust fund could fund erase the government deficit, glances at the price tag and her eyes widen, and a faint tingle of panic runs through my joints. Okay. Maybe I have a little indulgence issue. Maybe I shouldn’t be spending Jimmy’s life insurance on, er, underwear. But hey! I’m a tragic widow. I deserve pretty underwear. And Nordstrom’s in Providence is so lovely, so soothing. The clerks are always delighted to see me.

Parker gently (reverently?) replaces the La Perla bra. “Okay, we’ll discuss this later. For now, try this. Trust me, it’ll work.”

“I don’t want to put it on. I’m scared,” I answer, grinning at my sister, who’s trying to detach her little parasite by sticking a finger in Emma’s mouth. She yanks up her shirt, exposing the unoccupied breast, and Parker and I flinch simultaneously. The…er…breast looks more like a missile than a mammary gland—rock—hard, the skin taut, white and veined. What really gets me is…poor Corinne…the cracked, engorged nipple, which looks from here to be the size of a dessert plate.

“How the hell did it crack? It can’t be good for you, bleeding nipples,” Parker says, reading my mind. “Let alone Emma. What if she drinks blood, like some little vampire baby?”

“It’s fine,” Corinne says, though her forehead is dotted with sweat. “The air helps it heal. It’s not really bleeding anymore. Mostly healed. Very common. Don’t you remember?”

“Nicky was a formula baby,” Parker murmurs. Corinne’s eyes widen in horror, and to allay another lecture on What’s Best For Baby, I intervene.

“Okay. I’ll try it on. Spanx, huh?” I ask. “It looks evil.”

“Don’t be a sissy,” Parker says. “Honestly, you’re such a weenie, Lucy.”

“I think you’re perfect,” Corinne murmurs automatically.

“Help me get this on, then,” I say, bravely pulling the undergarment over one toe. My circulation is instantly impaired, and I wiggle my toes to make sure I still can. I tug. The Spanx doesn’t budge. “Jeez, Parker! It’s like putting on a garden hose.”

Parker comes over and grabs, yanking so hard I stagger back. “Work with me!” Parker laughs. We try again. The Spanx advances to my calf. Parker gives another savage tug, and I fall into the wall. Corinne laughs merrily, then gasps as Emma pops off.

“We need a couple of firemen, that’s all,” Parker grunts, frowning at the evil Spanx.

“I’d rather set fire to my kitchen,” I say. “This can’t be right, Parker. It doesn’t fit.”

“It does! Trust me, once it’s on, you’ll love how you look. The men will be salivating. You’ll definitely find someone tonight.”

My sister, both huge breasts now fully exposed, smiles. “So where are you two heading?” she asks.

I can’t answer, as Parker has managed to get the Spanx up to my midriff and all breathing is cut off. “A singles thing,” my friend answers.

Corinne shoots me a wary glance. “Singles thing? Oh, dear. Christopher might know someone. I’ll ask.” Emma fusses, and my sister, looking as if she’s about to be executed, shifts her to the other breast. Parker and I quickly avert our eyes as the baby, who apparently has razor blades in place of gums, latches on. Corinne whimpers, then assures the baby that she’s deeply loved.

One more savage yank, and the Spanx is in place. My left leg is asleep, as I imagine the femoral artery was cut off when the Spanx grabbed onto my thigh like a furious pit bull.

“How’s that?” Parker asks.

“Get it off me,” I wheeze. “I’m serious, Parker.”

“Chris, hi, honey!” Corinne squeaks from behind us. “How are you, hon?” She listens for a second, then shifts the phone away from her face. “He’s fine,” she informs us.

“I’ll stop the prayer vigil, then,” Parker murmurs, yanking the Spanx back down.

I dig in the back of the closet and find some jeans that aren’t too painful and vow to limit my Twinkie consumption to two per day.

“Okay, we’re off,” I say to my sister. “Lock up when you’re done.”

“Have a great time!” Corinne says, looking just a little lonely. “I’m sure you’ll have so much fun.”

If “fun” means feeling somewhat like I’m a prisoner of war, then yes, I guess you could say I’m having fun. Not to be a bad sport or anything. Parker may have been having fun in the more traditional sense of the word, but personally, I’m wondering when the Coalition of the Willing plans to free me.

“Yes!” The man in front of me smiles. A man who smells like Aunt Iris’s cellar, dank and moldering. His eye twitch doesn’t advance the cause, either, I’m afraid. Neither does that belch he just barely suppressed. Gah!

“No,” I say as gently as possible. “Thanks, though. I’m sure you’re very nice. But…no. It’s nothing personal. I’m a widow, see, it’s just—”

“Change!” Lemminglike, I step left, my need to make everyone happy mercifully cut off. The next man is extremely thin with a desperate, hungry look about his red—rimmed eyes. “Yes,” he says.

“No. Sorry. It’s not you. It’s me. I’m a widow. No one will ever measure up, you understand. Good luck, though.”

“Jesus Christ, Lucy,” Parker mutters next to me, then eyeballs the guy in front of her. “Yes.”

It cost seventy—five dollars to get into LoveLines tonight. Well, it cost Parker a hundred and fifty dollars to get in tonight, as she paid for my admission. For that sum, we stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder with about forty other women. Facing us is the men’s line. Every ten seconds, we take a step left. The idea is to see if there’s instant chemistry. Simply put, you look at each other and say only “yes” or “no.” If each of you says yes, you exchange cards and, in the next phase of LoveLines, meet for a ten—minute chat. If one or both of you says no, you simply move on.

I had no idea ten seconds could last so long. I quickly learn to hesitate as if torn, then drop my “no” at the last possible second, so as to minimize the hurt feelings.

So far, Parker has seventeen cards. I have none. “Stop saying no,” Parker hisses. “You’re standing there, arms crossed, big, sad eyes, looking like an orphan.”

“Prisoner of war, I was thinking.”

“I thought you wanted to find someone,” she says. “You don’t have to marry them, for God’s sake. Just say yes. The next guy is pretty cute. Say yes to him.”

“Change!” bellows the moderator. Like members of a chain gang, we all shuffle sideways, advancing to the next man. Parker’s right, I need to try. It just seems so…impossible. So stupid, also. Is this what dating is like in your thirties? As always, I’m grateful for Jimmy, the adorable way we met, that long, heart—squeezing, life—changing moment in Gianni’s kitchen. Good old Ethan, knowing I’d like his big brother.

I take a breath and smile gamely at the person in front of me. Average—looking, blond, brown eyes. Be brave, angel, I imagine Jimmy saying. What the heck. I smile, trying not to look like Oliver Twist.

“Yes,” I say.

“No,” he replies.

“Change!”

By the end of the Chain Gang Shuffle, I have collected four cards; Parker, twenty—one. We women go to our designated tables and sit, waiting for our suitors to visit.

My first Yes is just what the doctor ordered. He’s rather bland but wears a nice suit. He has a serious, thoughtful face that bodes well for commitment and wise choices, unlike (for example) Ethan’s devilish eyebrows and delicious smile. Even his tie bespeaks stability. Navy blue, no pattern, very unthreatening. The kind of tie an accountant might wear.

“Hello,” I say as he sits down. “I’m Lucy Mirabelli.”

“Hi,” he replies. “I’m Todd Smith.” Perfect. A nice boring name. Todd Smith simply could not be a dangerous man, not with a name and a tie like that.

“What do you do for a living, Todd?” I ask.

“I’m an accountant.”

My smiles grows more genuine. “I’m a baker,” I say.

“Interesting.”

“Mmm,” I murmur. “Yup.” We look at each other. My smile starts to feel a little stiff. I look at my hands, primly folded in front of me. Todd has a similarly wooden smile on his face. Or maybe it’s his normal smile. I picture seeing that smile across the kitchen table for the next fifty years. Suppress a sigh.

Next to me, Parker is howling with laughter over something her guy said. She tosses her hair, and he leans forward, grinning. Across from me, Todd blinks and cocks his head. I’m reminded of a lizard. Blink, blink. Perhaps his tongue will shoot out and he’ll catch a fly.

“So. An accountant,” I say.

“Yes. That’s right.”

My toes curl in my shoes. Granted, I wanted boring. Reliable, my conscience corrects in a chastising voice. Yes, yes, reliable. Someone who didn’t love me so much he tried to stay awake for twenty straight hours. Someone with the sense to pull over, no matter what his smitten wife might’ve said.

“Do you like movies?” I ask, searching my brain for something to talk about. “I’m a big movie watcher. I watched Star Wars last night.” Surely everyone on earth has seen Star Wars.

“I don’t watch movies, no.” Todd replies. His face is so impassive it could be carved from wood. “I tend to watch CNN more than anything. Their financial reporting is top—notch.”

“And that Anderson Cooper sure is a hottie,” I add without thinking. Oopsy. Todd’s face doesn’t change. He doesn’t seem to mind. Then again, he doesn’t seem to be alive, either. I forge on, albeit with a creeping certainty that Todd is, in fact, an android. “But you’ve seen Star Wars, right?”

“No.”

“But…I mean, it’s part of Americana. NASA sent Luke Skywalker’s light saber into space.”

“I haven’t seen Star Wars.” He forces a smile and says nothing more.

“Do you like dessert?” I ask with a hint of desperation.

“I love Nilla Wafers,” he answers. “Other than that, I really don’t indulge. It’s a sign of weakness, don’t you agree?”

Okay, he’s out. Mercifully our ten minutes are up. “A pleasure,” Todd says, standing and melting back into the crowd.

“Bye,” I say, but he’s already gone.

Parker’s guy, who looks like Matt Damon, just for the record, smooches her on the cheek. “Can’t wait to read your books,” he says fondly.

“They’re disgusting. Give them only to children you hate.” She smiles and tosses her gorgeous hair back, then looks at me. “So how was your guy?”

“He was a dud,” I answer.

“It’s all good,” Parker says. “There are bound to be duds. You’re here. It’s a big step. Hey, we should ask Ethan to come with us next time. He’s probably looking, too, now that you cut him off.”

“I didn’t cut him off!” I splutter. “It was just time to end our…thing. And he was so fine with it, I wonder if he even noticed.”

Parker turns her attention to the guy in front of her. I wait for my own next Yes to show up, but apparently, he’s morphed into a No, since he’s over with a woman whose blouse is so low—cut I can see areola. I look away. After Corinne’s little peep show in my room earlier, I’ve had all the nipple I can take.

Maybe I should work on Parker. Ethan asked her to marry him. Twice, actually. Once when she told him she was preggers, once a few weeks after Nicky was born. Granted, it was largely because of his Italian sense of family and honor, but still. He didn’t have to.

I’m snapped out of my reverie by a tap on the shoulder. Ah, my third Yes. “Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he replies. “I’m Kyle.”

“I’m Lucy,” I say. I’m looking for a guy I don’t love too much. Want to give it a shot?

He smiles. It’s a nice grin, but not too nice. Brown hair, hazel eyes. I imagine him coming through the door every night. It’s not horrible. Progress. Kyle takes a seat. “So,” he says amiably. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

I take a deep breath. “Well, I’m a widow. And my friend thought this would be a good way to start getting out there, you know?”

He nods. “A widow, huh? Awesome.”

I have to say, that’s not the usual response. “Excuse me?”

Kyle leans back in his chair and smiles contentedly. “Well, you’re not some skank nobody wants, you know what I’m saying? Like, some guy already thought you were pretty hot, popped the question, then ran into some bad luck, am I right?” My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Kyle doesn’t seem to notice. “And you’re not some trashy ho who plows through the dudes, either, I’m guessing, since you look all nice and clean and stuff. So you know…cool. You being a widow and all. You must be pretty horny, too, you know what I’m saying?”

Suddenly I feel the spirit of Attila the Hun, my ancestor, materialize at my shoulder. “You’re right. Being a widow is so cool. No one to mess up my stuff, you know what I’m saying? And you know what else, Kyle? Let me tell you a secret. One day, back when he was still alive, my husband took the last cup of coffee, okay? Didn’t even tell me. So I said to myself, ‘Lucy, do you really want to live like this?’ And I didn’t, so I killed him.” I flutter my eyelashes. “You want to grab dinner sometime?”

Parker and I don’t talk much on the way home. My last Yes turned out to be a firefighter, and though he was attractive, charming and polite, there was no way in hell I was going to marry a man who rushed into burning buildings with a rinky—dink little air pack strapped to his back. Parker took his card, though, and they have a date next week.

“You did good tonight, kid,” Parker says when we reach my place.

“And you did amazingly,” I say. “How many dates do you have for next week?”

“Just three,” she answers.

“Are you really looking for someone, or are you just keeping me company?” I ask.

“Oh, I guess I’d like to find someone. Theoretically. It’s different, though, having a kid. I already belong to someone, you know? It’s just that he’s four years old.”

I smile. “You’re so lucky, Parker.”

She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I know. Now get out of my car, you.”

“Thanks for driving,” I say. “And thanks for taking me. Sorry you wasted your money.”

“It’s nothing,” she answers. “Talk to you tomorrow. And hey, Luce…” She turns to look at me, and as always, I’m struck by just how gorgeous she is.

“Yes?”

“Jimmy would be proud of you.”

There’s a sudden lump in my throat. “Thanks,” I say, my voice uneven. “Kiss Nicky for me.”

“Will do.”

In the elevator, rather than pressing 4, I hit 5. Ethan’s floor. Maybe he wants a little company. Maybe—I wince, feeling like a person on a diet standing in front of the freezer, knowing she’s about to eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s—maybe Ethan wouldn’t mind a friendly little tumble. One that means nothing…just a little nooky, a quick shag. Or a longer shag, maybe.

I knock at his door. If he’s home, he’s awake…it’s only ten, and Ethan never goes to bed before 1:00 a.m. Or he didn’t use to, anyway. Whatever the case, there’s no answer. Feeling more deflated than I should, I go back down to my apartment, where Fat Mikey winds himself around my ankles in his traditional attempt to cause my death by tripping me. I pick him up, remind him that he loves me and I live to serve him, and kiss his large head.

Though I know I shouldn’t, I find myself sitting in front of the TV, watching my wedding video once again, Fat Mikey’s comforting bulk at my side. After attempting to find a date tonight, I just need to see Jimmy’s face, see him in motion. Our time together was so brief—so many memories that might’ve been were taken from me the night he died. We have no first anniversary, no birth of our children.

I hit Mute and watch the video in silence, undistracted by the sounds of the music, the laughter, other people talking. Instead I just drink in the sight of Jimmy, frozen in time at age twenty—seven, crazy in love with me.