Read Online The Instant When Everything is Perfect by Jessica Barksdale Inclan - Free Book Online
Authors: Jessica Barksdale Inclan
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worked,” Jack says. “Are you sure it wasn’t her?”
“It said adolescent program in her file.”
“I hope she’s older than that. Otherwise, we’ll have to have dinner on visiting days at Santa Rita.”
The valet drives up with Jack’s Porsche Carerra, and Jack hands him a five dollar bill. “Come on, I’ll drive you to your car. I can’t believe you still won’t pay for a valet.”
Robert shakes his head and holds out his hand to shake Jack’s. “No, I’m going to walk up to Bonanza Books. I need something to read.”
Jack takes Robert’s hand and then pulls him to him, giving him a hug. Jack laughs, the familiar, comforting sound in Robert’s ear.
“Try to avoid spying on anyone else this month. And stay away from married women.”
“Like you ever did.” Robert pulls back, pats his friend’s arm.
“I know. But in the long run, did any of those women work out?”
“You were lucky to get away with your life after what’s-her-name. Maryann,” Robert says. “And anyway, who’s talking about a long run?”
Jack opens his car door and laughs again. “Oh, yeah. I forgot I was talking to you. See you later, man.”
The sound of the Porsche is guttural, thick, the sound of power, and Jack looks out from behind the windshield and winks. Accelerating, he roars off down the road, the engine vibrating, echoing off the buildings.
“Sweet ride,” the valet says.
Robert shrugs and walks away, saying “Mia Alden” under his breath.
There is still over an hour before closing, but Robert is the only one in Bonanza Books save the young man behind the counter, who looks up when Robert walks in, nods, and goes back to his magazine, one of those with the strange, large-eyed cartoon characters on the cover.
Robert used to like to read, but in recent years, he’s been so busy with his work that the only thing he reads for pleasure is JAMA and Lancet . Even when he’s on vacation, he’s reading papers on efficacy of radiosurgery on skin lesions or the new breakthroughs in rhytidoplasty. But back in college and on his summer breaks when he worked in the lab at UCSF tending the mice on hormone therapies, he would read whatever he could get his hands on. Home decorating magazines, Reader’s Digest , poetry journals. Once he even read a romance novel a doctor had hidden under her lab coat, something about a woman in a castle and her vampire lover. It didn’t matter. Words were words. Words were entertainment. Words kept him from living alone in his brain.
He still doesn’t know what he was trying to avoid.
“Do ya need some help?” the young man suddenly asks.
Robert realizes that he’s been standing still in front of the sign that reads “New Fiction.”
He turns to the young man, whose frizzy hair is a wildflower of dark curls around his face. One giant pimple beats on his chin.
“I’m looking for the books by a particular author. Mia Alden.”
The young man points to shelves that run along the back of the store. “In literature. Under A.”
Robert wants to roll his eyes, to tell the young man that he’s known how to alphabetize since before kindergarten, but he sees the young man is used to questions like this. Where is the fiction? In the fiction section. Where are the children’s books? Over there, in the children’s section. Where are the magazines? In the magazine rack.
“Thanks,” Robert says, walking toward the far left of the shelf, where a large, black handwritten A is taped to the wood.
Abbot, Addonizio, and then Alden, Mia, right before Browne, Susan. Robert cocks his head before he reaches for the books, seeing the smooth spines, the titles in the same font. He reaches for one and pulls it off the shelf, the slick cover sliding in his hands. Flipping it up, he looks at the cover and reads the title. The Daisy Plate Incident. Already he hates the story because the
“It said adolescent program in her file.”
“I hope she’s older than that. Otherwise, we’ll have to have dinner on visiting days at Santa Rita.”
The valet drives up with Jack’s Porsche Carerra, and Jack hands him a five dollar bill. “Come on, I’ll drive you to your car. I can’t believe you still won’t pay for a valet.”
Robert shakes his head and holds out his hand to shake Jack’s. “No, I’m going to walk up to Bonanza Books. I need something to read.”
Jack takes Robert’s hand and then pulls him to him, giving him a hug. Jack laughs, the familiar, comforting sound in Robert’s ear.
“Try to avoid spying on anyone else this month. And stay away from married women.”
“Like you ever did.” Robert pulls back, pats his friend’s arm.
“I know. But in the long run, did any of those women work out?”
“You were lucky to get away with your life after what’s-her-name. Maryann,” Robert says. “And anyway, who’s talking about a long run?”
Jack opens his car door and laughs again. “Oh, yeah. I forgot I was talking to you. See you later, man.”
The sound of the Porsche is guttural, thick, the sound of power, and Jack looks out from behind the windshield and winks. Accelerating, he roars off down the road, the engine vibrating, echoing off the buildings.
“Sweet ride,” the valet says.
Robert shrugs and walks away, saying “Mia Alden” under his breath.
There is still over an hour before closing, but Robert is the only one in Bonanza Books save the young man behind the counter, who looks up when Robert walks in, nods, and goes back to his magazine, one of those with the strange, large-eyed cartoon characters on the cover.
Robert used to like to read, but in recent years, he’s been so busy with his work that the only thing he reads for pleasure is JAMA and Lancet . Even when he’s on vacation, he’s reading papers on efficacy of radiosurgery on skin lesions or the new breakthroughs in rhytidoplasty. But back in college and on his summer breaks when he worked in the lab at UCSF tending the mice on hormone therapies, he would read whatever he could get his hands on. Home decorating magazines, Reader’s Digest , poetry journals. Once he even read a romance novel a doctor had hidden under her lab coat, something about a woman in a castle and her vampire lover. It didn’t matter. Words were words. Words were entertainment. Words kept him from living alone in his brain.
He still doesn’t know what he was trying to avoid.
“Do ya need some help?” the young man suddenly asks.
Robert realizes that he’s been standing still in front of the sign that reads “New Fiction.”
He turns to the young man, whose frizzy hair is a wildflower of dark curls around his face. One giant pimple beats on his chin.
“I’m looking for the books by a particular author. Mia Alden.”
The young man points to shelves that run along the back of the store. “In literature. Under A.”
Robert wants to roll his eyes, to tell the young man that he’s known how to alphabetize since before kindergarten, but he sees the young man is used to questions like this. Where is the fiction? In the fiction section. Where are the children’s books? Over there, in the children’s section. Where are the magazines? In the magazine rack.
“Thanks,” Robert says, walking toward the far left of the shelf, where a large, black handwritten A is taped to the wood.
Abbot, Addonizio, and then Alden, Mia, right before Browne, Susan. Robert cocks his head before he reaches for the books, seeing the smooth spines, the titles in the same font. He reaches for one and pulls it off the shelf, the slick cover sliding in his hands. Flipping it up, he looks at the cover and reads the title. The Daisy Plate Incident. Already he hates the story because the
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