скачать книгу бесплатно
“I don’t know. In a few years, maybe.”
Hope takes a hike.
“A few years?” I echo, supremely pissed. “Maybe?”
“What’s the rush?”
I’m silent, glaring into the tossed salad that materialized on my place mat while I was gone. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation here. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation at all. But now that it’s under way, there’s no going back. I struggle to think of what I want to say next.
I assume Jack’s doing the same thing.
Until he asks, “Do you want your tomato?”
I watch him poke his fork into it without waiting for a reply.
He has some nerve! Aside from the fact that he just sidestepped the issue at hand, everybody knows the tomato is the best part of a salad, and that restaurants and caterers are for some reason notoriously skimpy with them.
Then again, maybe everybody doesn’t know. Or care.
But I do, and I do. It’s like tomatoes are some rare, expensive delicacy not to be squandered. When I make a salad, I cut up a couple of them so I can have some in every bite. But perhaps I’m alone in my passion. Maybe most people don’t like tomatoes, and they’re only in a salad for a splash of color to liven up the aesthetic.
Who knows?
Who cares?
Me. I care. Because the fact that Jack would blatantly help himself to my lone tomato just shows what kind of human being he is.
“I thought you had no appetite,” I manage to spit out between clenched jaws.
“It came back. Can I have your cucumber?”
It, too, is already on his fork, en route to his mouth.
“Take the whole thing.” I shove the salad bowl in his direction.
“Don’t you want it?”
“I lost my appetite.”
He laughs, with nary a care in the world, damn him.
“Really, Trace? Did you kiss the bride, too?”
No. I just realized I’ll never become one if I stay with you.
But I don’t say it.
What’s the use?
It’s all out there on the table. Now all I can think is that if you love something, you’re supposed to set it free. If it comes back to you, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never will…or never was. Or whatever.
Goodbye, Jack, I think sadly, watching him gobble the rest of my salad as though he hasn’t a care in the world.
Chapter 3
Call me a hypocrite, but in the broad light of Sunday morning, the major confrontation Jack and I had at Mike’s wedding doesn’t seem quite so dramatic.
For one thing, Jack was apparently too drunk to even realize we’d had a major confrontation, which goes a long way toward diffusing any post-fight tension. Thus, it was particularly hard for me to stay angry at him, especially when he requested that the band play “Brown Eyed Girl” and dedicate it to me.
I guess he was oblivious to the fact that he’d been set free, because he asked me to dance. What could I do but say yes?
I guess I could have said no. But when “Brown Eyed Girl” is playing and it’s been dedicated to you and you happen to be a brown-eyed girl, well, you get your ass out on the floor and you boogie.
At least, I fully intended to boogie. But for some reason, Jack seemed to think that particular song called for a slow dance.
If you’ve ever tried to stay angry at somebody while slow dancing with them to “Brown Eyed Girl” at a wedding—and really, who hasn’t?—then you’ll know why I wound up more or less forgiving the poor lug. At least, for the duration of the night—which, in the end, actually turned out to be kind of fun.
The band was great, the food, when I recovered my appetite, was decent, and Mike and Dianne eventually made a reappearance. They had apparently reconciled, although she did seem to take perverse satisfaction in smushing the cake in his face when she fed it to him.
I found myself thinking that I would never smush the cake in my groom’s face when I got married; then remembered that I probably wasn’t going to be getting married.
Not to Jack, anyway. Not unless I was willing to wait for years. Which I wasn’t.
But I couldn’t dwell on that all night, could I?
Sure I could. And I guess, in the end, I did.
Jack slept the entire drive home while I listened to the day’s news over and over again on 1010 WINS, the only radio station I could get on the car’s crappy stereo without static, and tried not to hate him.
Now, here it is, Sunday morning, and Sleeping Beauty is still blissfully snoring in the next room.
Normally, I love our cozy apartment, especially on mornings when the sun is streaming in the window and we don’t have to be back at our desks for forty-eight more hours.
But today, the place seems a little too…Ikea. Probably because that’s where all our furniture comes from. Jack really likes that Scandinavian, boxy, functional style. My taste is more cottage chic.
Since the apartment is strictly boxy/functional without a hint of cottage, let alone chic, his taste won. I was so grateful to be jointly buying anything more significant than dinner that I didn’t put up much of a fight. Now here I am, over a year later, feeling like I should change my name to Helga and learn to make pepperkaker so I won’t clash with the decor.
Back when we moved in, the apartment seemed spacious compared to my old studio…at least for the first five minutes. Today, it seems positively claustrophobic. Probably because one can cross the living room in three giant steps, the bedroom in two, and touch all three kitchen walls with one’s fingertips by standing on the center parquet tile.
Plus, the place is cluttered.
Everywhere I look, there are piles of stuff. Not just his; it’s my stuff, too. But his is more annoying.
Like the twelve novels he’s in the middle of reading, and the stacks of freebie magazines he gets as a media supervisor and is definitely going to read as soon as he finishes the twelve novels.
Then there are the suit jackets draped over the backs of every chair. All right, we only have two chairs, but both are draped in suit jackets.
Don’t even get me started on the shoes, the CDs and DVDs, the stuff that comes out of Jack’s pockets every time he comes home.
It’s not like I’m FlyLady, or Will, but at least I’m neater than Jack, and his clutter is starting to bug me. It’s so tempting to start tossing it, which, don’t worry, I won’t do, because Will once threw away a magazine I was reading when I set it down to go to the bathroom. I’m serious; in the space of time it took me to unzip, sit, pee, zip and wash, he not only threw it into the garbage, but carried the garbage down the hall and dumped it into the garbage chute. He didn’t do it on purpose, he said, seeming shocked by my disbelief.
Yeah, and he didn’t do Esme Spencer, his summer-stock costar, on purpose, either.
Anyway, here I am, curled up on the couch with my second cup of coffee, trying to read the Metro section of the Times while pondering my non-future with clutterholic, marriagephobic Jack, when the phone rings.
I figure it’s probably my friend Buckley O’Hanlon. He mentioned something about me and Jack joining him and his girlfriend, Sonja, for in-line skating in Central Park this afternoon. It sounded like fun when he brought it up the other day.
Now, not so much.
For one thing, I’m exhausted from all that dancing, and Jack will inevitably be hungover. For another, I’ve never in-line skated in my life. If my ice-skating and roller-skating prowess are any indication of my skill potential, I should probably learn to blade in a private bouncy tent, as opposed to a public park with gravel, roaming humans and other hazards.
Then again, maybe we should go anyway. After all, Buckley and Sonja are the only true peers we have left in New York. Unbetrothed, cohabiting couples seem to be a dying breed.
As I pick up the phone, I am already wondering if perhaps my weak Spadolini ankles have strengthened over the years, and whether the skate-rental place Buckley mentioned also supplies full-body padding that doesn’t make you look fat.
“Hello?”
“Tracey?” says a voice that isn’t Buckley’s. “It’s me, Wilma.”
“Oh, hi, Mrs. Candell,” I say to the wonderful woman who—sob—will never be my mother-in-law.
“Call me Wilma,” Mrs. Candell urges for the nine hundredth time since we met, and I murmur that I will, but I know that I won’t.
For some reason, I just can’t. Maybe because the name Wilma conjures an image of a cartoonish red bun, a prehistoric jagged-hemmed dress with a rock pearl choker and dots for eyes.
There’s nothing remotely Flintstone-ish about Jack’s mother, an elegant yet bubbly brunette with a penchant for designer clothes and chatty conversation. She’s the furthest thing from Wilma Flintstone, and the furthest thing from my own mother, that I can imagine.
You wouldn’t catch Mrs. Candell in a jagged-hemmed dress and rock pearls, let alone in stretch pants with graying hair and an unappealing line of dark fuzz on her upper lip.
All right, that’s mean. My mother might have a mustache, but she has her good points. She makes a mean minestrone, and she…um…
Well, she has some other good points. But it would be nice if she were as laid back and easy to talk to as Jack’s mother is.
“How was the wedding?” Mrs. Candell asks, and I marvel at how she always remembers exactly what our plans are on any given weekend.
“It was fun.” I tell her the highlights of the ceremony and reception, skipping over the bride and groom’s dance-floor fight as well as her son’s callous torture.
She asks about the color of the bridesmaids’ dresses, the flavor of the cake, the honeymoon destination.
I know! I told you she was great!
Then she says cryptically, “Well, I guess you’ll be next.”
Excuse me?
Did she just tell me she guesses I’ll be next?
What does she mean by that?
I’m silent for a moment, my mind racing. Can Jack’s mother possibly know something I don’t know?
I probably shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help it. My entire future—or non-future—with her son is hanging in the balance.
“Mrs. Candell?”
“It’s Wilma.”
Not.
“Oh. Right. Um, Wilma?” I ask, thinking Mom has a more natural ring to it.
“Mmm-hmm?”
“What do you mean? When you say I’ll be next,” I clarify, in case feigned confusion and sidestepping of issues runs in the family.
“You’ll be next,” she repeats. “You and Jack.”
“Next…?”
“Next. To get married.”
Next…after whom? Hazel and Phinnaeus Moder?
Okay, either the woman is seriously deluded, or she’s privy to some vast Candell conspiracy.
“I don’t think so,” I say cautiously, testing the waters. “I mean, I really doubt Jack wants to marry me.”
“Tracey! Why would you say something like that? Jack loves you.”
If those words coming from his mother don’t warm my heart, I don’t know what will.
Well, yes, I actually do. A proposal on bended knee from Jack himself would definitely be even toastier.
“Well,” I tell his mother, trying not to reveal my burgeoning excitement, “regardless of whether Jack loves me or not, I don’t think he wants to get married.”
“You’re wrong about that.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.” Her tone is oozing confidence.
I think.
Well, it’s definitely oozing something. Hopefully not bullshit.
“Mrs.—Wilma, I’m not sure I get what you’re trying to tell me.”
Is she trying to tell me something?
