Read Online Room for Love by Andrea Meyer - Free Book Online Page B

so fucking weird,” says the lounge lizard. Completely forgotten by the whole freak reunion, I walk more quickly until their shrieks fade out of earshot. It occurs to me that at least I’m not thinking about Jake. Then I see a couple making out at a bus stop and tears fill my eyes. “He’s not my fucking boyfriend,” I growl at myself.
    When I duck into the deli next to my office, the cashier, who must be about twenty, is showing a sonogram picture of his baby to a guy standing next to me at the counter.
    â€œTres meses!” he says, beaming. His sweetness makes me weepy again.
    Sam is the only one in the office when I get there and she’s chattering on the phone. “I’m thinking of going with lilac,” she says, turning toward me. Her mouth literally falls open when she sees me. I wonder if she might drool on the back of her chair, before recalling that she doesn’t do normal-human-being things like drool. “ Au contraire. You look outstanding in lilac,” she says. “Hey, can I call you back?” She hangs up and says, “You were so drunk last night, I thought for sure you wouldn’t be here until noon.”
    â€œWe’ve got a magazine to put to bed,” I say, dumping my stuff by my chair but not removing my sunglasses.
    â€œHow are you?” she asks.
    â€œThirty-two and still standing,” I tell her.
    â€œThat’s a start,” she says.
    â€œI brought doughnuts,” I say, placing a box of Krispy Kremes on the drafting table in the middle of the room and selecting a glazed one for myself. “I need them to soak up whatever poison is still in me.” I eat half of it in one bite, as Samantha jumps out of her seat and grabs two doughnuts for herself. My petite co-worker has the metabolism of a professional basketball player.
    â€œHey, have you proofed the text yet?” she asks. “I just read your Cate Blanchett piece. C’est magnifique. ”
    â€œThanks. Yeah, doing that right now.”
    I take the pile of articles from her and sit back down at my desk to read them for what feels like the eighteenth time. The pounding in my head has dulled to a mere thud. After getting halfway through the first page, I feel myself drawn to the phone. I want to call him so badly it hurts, but I won’t. First of all, he’d still be sleeping—he rarely gets up before two. Second, I have to break myself of the habit. I snap the rubber band on my wrist and focus on the sting as I try to dream up a way out of my funk. I could eat another doughnut and think about how no one will ever love me again if I get fat. I could go outside and pet puppies, but that would mean moving. I cruise around Friendster for a while, inviting everyone with a picture of a dog to be my friend. For some reason, a black Lab called Bert I’ve befriended, who loves “barking, playing demolish my squeaky toy, and smelling other dogs’ weewees,” reminds me of my chat with Alicia yesterday, the one that invoked strangers’ sweaty socks, admirable pectoral muscles, and the fringe benefits of hunting for a roommate. I pick up the phone.
    Clancy, one editor who gets to work on time, answers on the first ring.
    â€œI was just about to call you,” she says even before I announce myself. The wonders of Caller ID. “You’re a genius.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œJust had an editorial meeting. Doing a whole section for July on alternative ways to meet men. Your story could fit in nicely.”
    â€œCool,” I say and hold my breath.
    â€œBut you’d have to do it,” she says.
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œTest it. Look for a room. Make the necessary phone calls. Hit the pavement.”
    â€œBut I’m not looking for an apartment,” I say, feeling like I’ve had this conversation before.
    â€œJacquie, you’re a reporter. It’s research.”
    â€œHmm,” I say. Why does everyone