Read Online The Men I Didn't Marry by Janice Kaplan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Janice Kaplan
Tags: Fiction
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assurance.
I sigh. That one was much too easy.
“We can get pancakes,” Bill says, as if the lure of soggy, greasy, carbladened fritters can entice me. And I’m hungry, so it does. I should have eaten more caviar at Eric’s. In fact, I should always eat more caviar.
“Okay,” I say reluctantly. “Where should we meet?”
“Breakfast at the Regency,” he says.
“Really?” I ask, shocked that my husband or former husband or soon-to-be-former husband picked the city’s power breakfast spot.
“Just joking. There’s a good diner on Ninth and Fifty-fifth. See you there in ten minutes.”
He clicks off. A diner. What a surprise. I check my face in the compact mirror in my bag and note with satisfaction that my eye makeup is intact and my face is still flushed from Eric’s kisses. I look down and wiggle my toes. Watch out, Bill, because I’m ready. Now I know why I bought these stilettos. Turns out they’re my Fuck-You shoes.
I get to the diner and Bill is already comfortably settled into a red leather booth, filling in
The New York Times
crossword puzzle. The clues get harder every day, and here it is Saturday, and he’s still doing the damn thing in ink. We used to work on the Sunday puzzle together, and I take some comfort in realizing that he’s going to miss me every weekend. Not a chance Ashlee comes up with the five-letter word for the Swedish port opposite Copenhagen: Malmö.
“Hallie!” he says cheerfully. “Come sit down. I already ordered you a café au lait with skim milk and two Splendas.”
“I only use one now,” I say archly, sliding onto the banquette opposite him.
“You’re looking great,” he says, glancing at me appraisingly. “But isn’t that blouse a little sheer for work?”
“I got dressed last night,” I answer provocatively.
Bill doesn’t seem to know what to make of my remark. “At least your clothes aren’t wrinkled,” he says, clearly not ready to imagine that I may have spent the night with someone else. He reaches over to smooth his fingers across my face. “In fact you’re not wrinkled at all. Anywhere.”
I’m pleased by the compliment—and the success of the QVCORDERED Victoria Principal anti-aging products that I now use daily— but I pull away from his touch. “Sorry, pal. You’ve lost your patting rights.”
“Why? Doesn’t twenty-one years count for anything?”
“Exactly my question,” I say with an edge to my voice.
“Let’s not go there,” Bill says, shaking his head. “I just wanted to see you. I’m not looking for a fight this morning.”
What would Bill and I have to fight about? Surely the fact that he’s shtupping another woman shouldn’t cause any bad blood between us. We don’t even live together anymore. I can’t complain that he set the thermostat too low or that he used up the last roll of Charmin Ultra and forgot to write it on the shopping list. In fact, I just bought a 48-pack all for myself. I’ll never, ever have to worry about toilet paper again.
Oblivious, Bill starts chatting amiably, as if it were any other Saturday morning, telling me about the great movie he saw the other night and his newly improved tennis serve. I yawn audibly. I don’t care if he aced Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf—and their toddler—all at the same time. If Ashlee’s the one stroking Bill’s body, she can be the one to stroke his goddamn ego, too.
The waiter brings over my Western omelet, which I’d ordered to send Bill the message that he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks: I don’t eat pancakes anymore. But the eggs look disgusting, and I just push them around on my plate.
“So, Bill, why did you want to meet?” I ask, taking a sip of watery café au lait.
“I don’t want to lose touch with you.” And trying to sound matter-of-fact, he adds, “Oh, and by the way, I remember you said that you got season tickets to the Knicks. The first game’s not too far away, so I thought we’d make some plans.”
I stare
I sigh. That one was much too easy.
“We can get pancakes,” Bill says, as if the lure of soggy, greasy, carbladened fritters can entice me. And I’m hungry, so it does. I should have eaten more caviar at Eric’s. In fact, I should always eat more caviar.
“Okay,” I say reluctantly. “Where should we meet?”
“Breakfast at the Regency,” he says.
“Really?” I ask, shocked that my husband or former husband or soon-to-be-former husband picked the city’s power breakfast spot.
“Just joking. There’s a good diner on Ninth and Fifty-fifth. See you there in ten minutes.”
He clicks off. A diner. What a surprise. I check my face in the compact mirror in my bag and note with satisfaction that my eye makeup is intact and my face is still flushed from Eric’s kisses. I look down and wiggle my toes. Watch out, Bill, because I’m ready. Now I know why I bought these stilettos. Turns out they’re my Fuck-You shoes.
I get to the diner and Bill is already comfortably settled into a red leather booth, filling in
The New York Times
crossword puzzle. The clues get harder every day, and here it is Saturday, and he’s still doing the damn thing in ink. We used to work on the Sunday puzzle together, and I take some comfort in realizing that he’s going to miss me every weekend. Not a chance Ashlee comes up with the five-letter word for the Swedish port opposite Copenhagen: Malmö.
“Hallie!” he says cheerfully. “Come sit down. I already ordered you a café au lait with skim milk and two Splendas.”
“I only use one now,” I say archly, sliding onto the banquette opposite him.
“You’re looking great,” he says, glancing at me appraisingly. “But isn’t that blouse a little sheer for work?”
“I got dressed last night,” I answer provocatively.
Bill doesn’t seem to know what to make of my remark. “At least your clothes aren’t wrinkled,” he says, clearly not ready to imagine that I may have spent the night with someone else. He reaches over to smooth his fingers across my face. “In fact you’re not wrinkled at all. Anywhere.”
I’m pleased by the compliment—and the success of the QVCORDERED Victoria Principal anti-aging products that I now use daily— but I pull away from his touch. “Sorry, pal. You’ve lost your patting rights.”
“Why? Doesn’t twenty-one years count for anything?”
“Exactly my question,” I say with an edge to my voice.
“Let’s not go there,” Bill says, shaking his head. “I just wanted to see you. I’m not looking for a fight this morning.”
What would Bill and I have to fight about? Surely the fact that he’s shtupping another woman shouldn’t cause any bad blood between us. We don’t even live together anymore. I can’t complain that he set the thermostat too low or that he used up the last roll of Charmin Ultra and forgot to write it on the shopping list. In fact, I just bought a 48-pack all for myself. I’ll never, ever have to worry about toilet paper again.
Oblivious, Bill starts chatting amiably, as if it were any other Saturday morning, telling me about the great movie he saw the other night and his newly improved tennis serve. I yawn audibly. I don’t care if he aced Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf—and their toddler—all at the same time. If Ashlee’s the one stroking Bill’s body, she can be the one to stroke his goddamn ego, too.
The waiter brings over my Western omelet, which I’d ordered to send Bill the message that he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks: I don’t eat pancakes anymore. But the eggs look disgusting, and I just push them around on my plate.
“So, Bill, why did you want to meet?” I ask, taking a sip of watery café au lait.
“I don’t want to lose touch with you.” And trying to sound matter-of-fact, he adds, “Oh, and by the way, I remember you said that you got season tickets to the Knicks. The first game’s not too far away, so I thought we’d make some plans.”
I stare
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