Read Online The Guy Not Taken by Jennifer Weiner - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Weiner
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heart.
Nicki shrugged. “At least Nanna has something to remember me by.” Cheered, she spread her towel on top of the blanket beside me and stepped gingerly into the sun.
Soon, things were back to normal. I was back with Madame Bovary and her endless discontent, while Nicki kept trying to pull the book out of my hands in order to regale me with recent doings on her soap opera, which she unfailingly identified as “the Emmy Award–winning Santa Barbara .”
“Okay, so Gina’s house burned down, but Abigail owns it and won’t give her anyof the insurance money ’cause she knows that Gina once had an affair with Chris—Abigail’s ex-husband, really her brother, but she didn’t know. . . .”
Suddenly Nicki stopped talking. “Oh, dear,” she said.
“What?” I asked . . . but then I saw. Through the white glare rising off the sand, marching toward us like soldiers in resort-wear, were Nanna, Jon, and our mother. Judging from my grandmother’s indignant gestures and my mother’s quickening stride, Nanna was in the process of spilling the beans. “Mom had to ride all the way back from the airport in the meatball car,” I whispered. Nicki grabbed my book and clutched Madame Bovary against her chest, while scanning the waterfront for the lifeguards.
“I’m doomed.”
The two women drew closer, glaring at Nicki with unforgiving eyes. “She hasn’t looked this mad since the last time she took Dad to court,” I observed.
“She probably heard about the Horace thing,” said Nicki.
“She probably heard about my sunburn,” I said, twisting so the pinkest section of flesh was front and center. Nanna parked herself on a bench beside the palm tree while our mother plowed on toward Nicki, who was seized by a new fear. “Oh, God,” she whispered, “what if she got my grades?”
“Take your medicine,” I told my sister. Nicki gave me a desperate look, then pulled my giant T-shirt on over her bikini and slouched, head down, across the sand to meet my mother halfway.
I pulled a towel around my shoulders and hurried toward the water’s edge, listening to Nicki’s voice rising indignantly. My feet slipped in the warm sand, and the sun was warm on my face, as the words meatball and kidney and utter ingratitude followed me out to the sea.
I t was the night before my wedding, and I should have been feeling any one of a number of things: nerves, joy, happiness, hopefulness, fear of the unknown. The truth was, the only thing I could really feel was hunger. In a last-ditch attempt to be the bride of a thousand fairy tales and a hundred thousand advertisements in Modern Bride, Traditional Bride, and Martha Stewart Weddings, I’d spent the last six months on Weight Watchers and the last five days subsisting on cabbage soup and seltzer water. The good news was, I was thinner than I’d been since my bat mitzvah thirteen years before. The bad news: I was crabby to the point of psychosis. Also, I couldn’t stop farting.
“What died in here?” my sister demanded as she breezed into the honeymoon suite with two giant suitcases and my mother in tow. Nicki parked the suitcases by the door, marched through the living room, and flung herself into the center of the canopied king-size bed.
“So this is it?” she asked, bouncing up and down on the green-and-gold-silk comforter. “The wedding bed? The place where you will grant David your final favor?” She rubbed the corner of a pillowcase between her fingers. “Nice thread count. Too bad you’ll ruin the sheets with your virginal blood.”
“Please get off the bed,” I said. “What are you doing here, anyhow? Isn’t your room ready?”
My mother set the Playmate cooler she’d packed for the trip from Connecticut to Philadelphia down on the coffee table and wandered over to the window. It was my favorite time of year. Red and gold leaves were swirling in the air, brilliant against the bright blue sky. The stores along Walnut Street had pumpkins in
Nicki shrugged. “At least Nanna has something to remember me by.” Cheered, she spread her towel on top of the blanket beside me and stepped gingerly into the sun.
Soon, things were back to normal. I was back with Madame Bovary and her endless discontent, while Nicki kept trying to pull the book out of my hands in order to regale me with recent doings on her soap opera, which she unfailingly identified as “the Emmy Award–winning Santa Barbara .”
“Okay, so Gina’s house burned down, but Abigail owns it and won’t give her anyof the insurance money ’cause she knows that Gina once had an affair with Chris—Abigail’s ex-husband, really her brother, but she didn’t know. . . .”
Suddenly Nicki stopped talking. “Oh, dear,” she said.
“What?” I asked . . . but then I saw. Through the white glare rising off the sand, marching toward us like soldiers in resort-wear, were Nanna, Jon, and our mother. Judging from my grandmother’s indignant gestures and my mother’s quickening stride, Nanna was in the process of spilling the beans. “Mom had to ride all the way back from the airport in the meatball car,” I whispered. Nicki grabbed my book and clutched Madame Bovary against her chest, while scanning the waterfront for the lifeguards.
“I’m doomed.”
The two women drew closer, glaring at Nicki with unforgiving eyes. “She hasn’t looked this mad since the last time she took Dad to court,” I observed.
“She probably heard about the Horace thing,” said Nicki.
“She probably heard about my sunburn,” I said, twisting so the pinkest section of flesh was front and center. Nanna parked herself on a bench beside the palm tree while our mother plowed on toward Nicki, who was seized by a new fear. “Oh, God,” she whispered, “what if she got my grades?”
“Take your medicine,” I told my sister. Nicki gave me a desperate look, then pulled my giant T-shirt on over her bikini and slouched, head down, across the sand to meet my mother halfway.
I pulled a towel around my shoulders and hurried toward the water’s edge, listening to Nicki’s voice rising indignantly. My feet slipped in the warm sand, and the sun was warm on my face, as the words meatball and kidney and utter ingratitude followed me out to the sea.
I t was the night before my wedding, and I should have been feeling any one of a number of things: nerves, joy, happiness, hopefulness, fear of the unknown. The truth was, the only thing I could really feel was hunger. In a last-ditch attempt to be the bride of a thousand fairy tales and a hundred thousand advertisements in Modern Bride, Traditional Bride, and Martha Stewart Weddings, I’d spent the last six months on Weight Watchers and the last five days subsisting on cabbage soup and seltzer water. The good news was, I was thinner than I’d been since my bat mitzvah thirteen years before. The bad news: I was crabby to the point of psychosis. Also, I couldn’t stop farting.
“What died in here?” my sister demanded as she breezed into the honeymoon suite with two giant suitcases and my mother in tow. Nicki parked the suitcases by the door, marched through the living room, and flung herself into the center of the canopied king-size bed.
“So this is it?” she asked, bouncing up and down on the green-and-gold-silk comforter. “The wedding bed? The place where you will grant David your final favor?” She rubbed the corner of a pillowcase between her fingers. “Nice thread count. Too bad you’ll ruin the sheets with your virginal blood.”
“Please get off the bed,” I said. “What are you doing here, anyhow? Isn’t your room ready?”
My mother set the Playmate cooler she’d packed for the trip from Connecticut to Philadelphia down on the coffee table and wandered over to the window. It was my favorite time of year. Red and gold leaves were swirling in the air, brilliant against the bright blue sky. The stores along Walnut Street had pumpkins in
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