it would be a while—a long while—before she went out on any more “coffee dates,” either.
5
Sunday, December 31, New Year’s Eve
New Year’s Eve, oh joy! Number of hunky potential boyfriends lost to violent homicide over the past week: one. Calories consumed: don’t know but as am swearing off men for remainder of life, who cares. Glasses of champagne downed to dull grief at grizzly death of sex god and potential soul mate: lost count after first bottle.
M ANDY FILED HER REPORT with the department and then went about the rest of the week in a sort of functional daze. Until she could sort things out, including her feelings, keeping herself busy—and numb—seemed like the best solution. For the most part it worked. Well, sort of. In a feeble attempt to feel better, she reminded herself she hadn’t really known Josh, not really. Beyond a shared a love for old movies, Art Deco antiques and anything chocolate, he’d been a stranger to her. Until the episode at the M.E.’s, she hadn’t even known his real name, let alone who and what he was. Sure, they’d only spent a handful of hours together, a blink of time, and yet there’d been this crazy chemistry, a connection—invisible, indefinable, and yet real nonetheless.
Taking a step back to assess the situation objectively, she could see that things never would have worked out between them. Cinderella fantasies aside, in the real world New England blue-bloods didn’t find their girlfriends from among blue-collar immigrants one generation removed. In all likelihood, he’d found himself alone on Christmas Eve and had been making time with her for lack of something better to do. All he’d wanted with her was a fling or less than that, a one-night stand. Whatever fleeting attraction he’d felt had been brought on by the holiday blues or, given his situation, just plain loneliness. If he’d lived, he would have joined the mounting list of men in her life who said they would call and then didn’t. The let-down would have been enormous but even getting used for sex and then dumped would have been preferable to the shock of finding your fantasy man stretched out on a morgue slab on Christmas night. She thought about the speed with which he’d asked her back to his apartment, how close she’d come to accepting, and couldn’t help wishing she’d gone with him—and not just to save him, either. She couldn’t forget the way he’d smiled at her, not just with his mouth but with his eyes, too; the sensual magic of his kisses; the easy way she’d fit in his arms as though she was meant, just meant to be there. No matter what she’d found out, she had to believe that part had been real at least. She just had to.
And now it was five o’clock on New Year’s Eve, and she was curled up on the plaid living room couch—encased in its clear vinyl cover—a bowl of microwave popcorn in her lap and jumbo bag of Reese’s Pieces on the coffee table in front of her. She leaned over to reach for the TV remote when the doorbell rang.
It was Suzie Plotnik, her best friend since they’d met as fifth-graders at St. Agnes School. Standing in the doorway, she gave Mandy the once-over, taking in the baggy sweatshirt and mismatched drawstring sweatpants, and shook her short cap of razor-cut blond hair. “I can see I got here just in time.”
Without waiting for an invitation, she stepped past Mandy and strolled into the living room, casually elegant in a cream-colored angora turtleneck sweater and slim-fitting jeans. Feeling like a blob—a blob with unwashed hair and no makeup—Mandy followed her over to the couch.
Plopping down on the cushion, she held out the popcorn bowl in offering. “Since you’re here, dig in.”
Kicking off her suede slip-ons, Suz shook her head. “No thanks.” She’d lost a boatload of weight on Jenny Craig the year before, and Mandy hadn’t seen her swallow much more than air since.
Shrugging, Mandy dug in a hand. “So are you checking
5
Sunday, December 31, New Year’s Eve
New Year’s Eve, oh joy! Number of hunky potential boyfriends lost to violent homicide over the past week: one. Calories consumed: don’t know but as am swearing off men for remainder of life, who cares. Glasses of champagne downed to dull grief at grizzly death of sex god and potential soul mate: lost count after first bottle.
M ANDY FILED HER REPORT with the department and then went about the rest of the week in a sort of functional daze. Until she could sort things out, including her feelings, keeping herself busy—and numb—seemed like the best solution. For the most part it worked. Well, sort of. In a feeble attempt to feel better, she reminded herself she hadn’t really known Josh, not really. Beyond a shared a love for old movies, Art Deco antiques and anything chocolate, he’d been a stranger to her. Until the episode at the M.E.’s, she hadn’t even known his real name, let alone who and what he was. Sure, they’d only spent a handful of hours together, a blink of time, and yet there’d been this crazy chemistry, a connection—invisible, indefinable, and yet real nonetheless.
Taking a step back to assess the situation objectively, she could see that things never would have worked out between them. Cinderella fantasies aside, in the real world New England blue-bloods didn’t find their girlfriends from among blue-collar immigrants one generation removed. In all likelihood, he’d found himself alone on Christmas Eve and had been making time with her for lack of something better to do. All he’d wanted with her was a fling or less than that, a one-night stand. Whatever fleeting attraction he’d felt had been brought on by the holiday blues or, given his situation, just plain loneliness. If he’d lived, he would have joined the mounting list of men in her life who said they would call and then didn’t. The let-down would have been enormous but even getting used for sex and then dumped would have been preferable to the shock of finding your fantasy man stretched out on a morgue slab on Christmas night. She thought about the speed with which he’d asked her back to his apartment, how close she’d come to accepting, and couldn’t help wishing she’d gone with him—and not just to save him, either. She couldn’t forget the way he’d smiled at her, not just with his mouth but with his eyes, too; the sensual magic of his kisses; the easy way she’d fit in his arms as though she was meant, just meant to be there. No matter what she’d found out, she had to believe that part had been real at least. She just had to.
And now it was five o’clock on New Year’s Eve, and she was curled up on the plaid living room couch—encased in its clear vinyl cover—a bowl of microwave popcorn in her lap and jumbo bag of Reese’s Pieces on the coffee table in front of her. She leaned over to reach for the TV remote when the doorbell rang.
It was Suzie Plotnik, her best friend since they’d met as fifth-graders at St. Agnes School. Standing in the doorway, she gave Mandy the once-over, taking in the baggy sweatshirt and mismatched drawstring sweatpants, and shook her short cap of razor-cut blond hair. “I can see I got here just in time.”
Without waiting for an invitation, she stepped past Mandy and strolled into the living room, casually elegant in a cream-colored angora turtleneck sweater and slim-fitting jeans. Feeling like a blob—a blob with unwashed hair and no makeup—Mandy followed her over to the couch.
Plopping down on the cushion, she held out the popcorn bowl in offering. “Since you’re here, dig in.”
Kicking off her suede slip-ons, Suz shook her head. “No thanks.” She’d lost a boatload of weight on Jenny Craig the year before, and Mandy hadn’t seen her swallow much more than air since.
Shrugging, Mandy dug in a hand. “So are you checking
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