Read Online Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emily Giffin
Tags: Fiction, General, Psychological, Romance, Contemporary, Juvenile Nonfiction, People & Places, Contemporary Women, Single Women, Female friendship, Triangles (Interpersonal relations), Risk-Taking (Psychology)
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he finally says.
"And who is?" I ask, and then feel instantly remorseful.
Flirting
like this is not the path to redemption. It is no way to right my
wrong. This is what my brain tells me, but my heart is galloping as
I await his answer.
"I don't know. I've been trying to figure that out for about seven
years."
I wonder what he means by this statement. I twist the cord
around my fingers and can think of nothing to say in response. We
should hang up now. This is going in a bad direction.
"Rach?" His voice is low and intimate.
I feel breathless, hearing him say my name like this.
The one
syllable is familiar, warm. "Yeah?"
"You still there?" he whispers.
I manage to say, "Yes, I'm still here."
"What are you thinking?"
"Nothing," I lie.
I have to lie. Because what I am thinking is, Maybe you are my
type a little bit more than I once thought.
Chapter 5
Previous Top Next
Maybe I don't have a type at all. When I consider my past
relationships there is no composite picture. Not that the sample
would be considered statistically significant other than Brandon
in high school, I have had only three boyfriends.
My real dating history began my first semester of college at Duke.
I lived in a coed dorm, and every night we all gathered in the
lounge to study (or pretend to), hang out, and watch shows like
Beverly Hills, 90210 and Melrose Place. It was in that lounge that
I developed a serious crush on Hunter Bretz from Mississippi.
Hunter was scrawny and nerdy, but I was crazy about him. I loved
his intelligence, his slow, smooth drawl, and the way his brown
eyes fixed on you when you talked, as though he really cared about
what you had to say. My roommate Pam, a Jersey girl with big
hair, declared my feelings a "total fucking mystery" but still
encouraged me to ask Hunter out. I didn't, but I did work hard at
developing a friendship, cracking through his shy exterior to talk
to him about poetry and literature. I really believed that I was
making progress with Hunter when Joey Merola came in for the
kill.
Joey was the opposite of Hunter a boisterous sports guy with a
loud laugh. He played every intramural sport in the book and was
always strolling into the lounge all sweaty with a story about how
his team came from behind in the last second to win the game. He
was the kind of guy who was proud of how much he could eat and
the fact that he could get by in literature classes without ever
reading a book.
One Thursday night, Joey, Hunter, and I were the last three in the
lounge, talking about religion, the death penalty, and the meaning
of life, the stuff I had imagined discussing in college, away from
Darcy and her more shallow pursuits. Joey was an atheist and for
the death penalty. Like me, Hunter was Methodist and against the
death penalty. All three of us were unclear on the meaning of life.
We talked and talked, and I was determined to outlast Joey and
end up with Hunter. But sometime after two, Hunter threw in the
towel. "Awright y'all, I have an early class."
"C'mon, man. Skip it. I never make my eight o'clock,"
Joey said
proudly.
Hunter laughed. "I figure I'm payin' for it, I should go."
This was another thing I liked about Hunter. He was paying for
his own education, unlike most of the rich kids at Duke. So he said
good night, and I wistfully watched him amble out of the lounge.
Joey didn't miss a beat, just kept yapping, rehashing the fact that
we were both from Indiana just two towns apart and that both of
our fathers had attended Indiana (his dad had been a walk-on for
the basketball team). We played the name game and got two hits.
Joey knew Blaine, Darcy's ex-boyfriend, from reading the local
sports page. And we both knew of Tracy Purlington, a promiscuous girl from the town between ours.
Finally, when I said I really must get to bed, Joey followed me
upstairs and kissed me in the stairwell. I thought of Hunter, but I
still kissed Joey back, excited to be getting
"And who is?" I ask, and then feel instantly remorseful.
Flirting
like this is not the path to redemption. It is no way to right my
wrong. This is what my brain tells me, but my heart is galloping as
I await his answer.
"I don't know. I've been trying to figure that out for about seven
years."
I wonder what he means by this statement. I twist the cord
around my fingers and can think of nothing to say in response. We
should hang up now. This is going in a bad direction.
"Rach?" His voice is low and intimate.
I feel breathless, hearing him say my name like this.
The one
syllable is familiar, warm. "Yeah?"
"You still there?" he whispers.
I manage to say, "Yes, I'm still here."
"What are you thinking?"
"Nothing," I lie.
I have to lie. Because what I am thinking is, Maybe you are my
type a little bit more than I once thought.
Chapter 5
Previous Top Next
Maybe I don't have a type at all. When I consider my past
relationships there is no composite picture. Not that the sample
would be considered statistically significant other than Brandon
in high school, I have had only three boyfriends.
My real dating history began my first semester of college at Duke.
I lived in a coed dorm, and every night we all gathered in the
lounge to study (or pretend to), hang out, and watch shows like
Beverly Hills, 90210 and Melrose Place. It was in that lounge that
I developed a serious crush on Hunter Bretz from Mississippi.
Hunter was scrawny and nerdy, but I was crazy about him. I loved
his intelligence, his slow, smooth drawl, and the way his brown
eyes fixed on you when you talked, as though he really cared about
what you had to say. My roommate Pam, a Jersey girl with big
hair, declared my feelings a "total fucking mystery" but still
encouraged me to ask Hunter out. I didn't, but I did work hard at
developing a friendship, cracking through his shy exterior to talk
to him about poetry and literature. I really believed that I was
making progress with Hunter when Joey Merola came in for the
kill.
Joey was the opposite of Hunter a boisterous sports guy with a
loud laugh. He played every intramural sport in the book and was
always strolling into the lounge all sweaty with a story about how
his team came from behind in the last second to win the game. He
was the kind of guy who was proud of how much he could eat and
the fact that he could get by in literature classes without ever
reading a book.
One Thursday night, Joey, Hunter, and I were the last three in the
lounge, talking about religion, the death penalty, and the meaning
of life, the stuff I had imagined discussing in college, away from
Darcy and her more shallow pursuits. Joey was an atheist and for
the death penalty. Like me, Hunter was Methodist and against the
death penalty. All three of us were unclear on the meaning of life.
We talked and talked, and I was determined to outlast Joey and
end up with Hunter. But sometime after two, Hunter threw in the
towel. "Awright y'all, I have an early class."
"C'mon, man. Skip it. I never make my eight o'clock,"
Joey said
proudly.
Hunter laughed. "I figure I'm payin' for it, I should go."
This was another thing I liked about Hunter. He was paying for
his own education, unlike most of the rich kids at Duke. So he said
good night, and I wistfully watched him amble out of the lounge.
Joey didn't miss a beat, just kept yapping, rehashing the fact that
we were both from Indiana just two towns apart and that both of
our fathers had attended Indiana (his dad had been a walk-on for
the basketball team). We played the name game and got two hits.
Joey knew Blaine, Darcy's ex-boyfriend, from reading the local
sports page. And we both knew of Tracy Purlington, a promiscuous girl from the town between ours.
Finally, when I said I really must get to bed, Joey followed me
upstairs and kissed me in the stairwell. I thought of Hunter, but I
still kissed Joey back, excited to be getting
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