Read Online This Is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper - Free Book Online

grappling with self-esteem issues and a failed attempt at anorexia. I was in the right place at the right time, and the gods were finally ready to cut me some slack.
    But I didn’t know any of that yet. All I knew was that a conversation that should have ended already seemed to have taken on a life of its own, and a girl who, according to the laws of the universe, shouldn’t have given me a second glance was now leaning forward, her smiling mouth aimed unmistakably at mine. It was a quick, soft peck, but I felt the give in her lips, a hint of plush softness just beneath the surface, and I was in love. Seriously. Just like that.
    “Poor impulse control,” she said, proud of her daring.
    “Jen.” I exhaled slowly, running my tongue along the inside of my lips, savoring the waxy residue of her lip gloss.
    “Judd.”
    “I think I’m going to call you Bike Girl until we have sex.”
    She laughed again, and that was three, for those keeping score at home, and I didn’t stand a chance. Later on, Jen would swear that was the moment she knew she was going to marry me. That’s the problem with college kids. I blame Hollywood for skewing their perspective. Life is just a big romantic comedy to them, and if you meet cute, happily-ever-after is a foregone conclusion. So there we were, the pretty blond girl milking her very slight congenital limp in order to seem damaged and more interesting, and the nervous boy with the ridiculous hair trying so hard to be clever, the two of us hypnotized by the syncopated rhythms of our furiously beating hearts and throbbing loins. That stupid, desperate, horny kid I was, standing obliviously on the fault line of his embryonic love, when really, what he should have been doing was running for his life.

Chapter 7
    3:43 p.m.
    Boner comes by with three volunteers from the Hebrew Burial Society to deliver the mourning supplies. They rearrange furniture and set things up with a hushed military precision, after which Boner gathers the four Foxman siblings in the living room. Five low folding chairs with thick wooden frames and faded vinyl upholstery are lined up in front of the fi replace. The mirror above the mantel has been clouded over with some kind of soapy white spray. The furniture has all been pushed to the perimeter of the room, and thirty or so white plastic catering chairs have been unfolded and placed in three rows facing the five low chairs. There are two silver collection plates placed on the piano. People paying their respects to the family can make dollar contributions to the burial society or to a local children’s cancer society. A few lonely bills have been placed on each plate like tips. In the front hall, a thick candle formed in a tall glass is lit and placed on the table, next to Wendy’s baby monitor. This is the shiva candle, and there is enough wax in the glass for the candle to burn for seven days. Phillip nudges one of the low chairs with his toe. “It was nice of Yoda to lend us his chairs.”
    “They’re shiva chairs,” Boner says. “You sit low to the ground as a sign of mourning. Originally, the bereaved sat on the floor. Over time, the concept has evolved.”
    “It still has a ways to go,” Phillip grumbles.
    “What’s with the mirror?” Wendy wants to know.
    “It’s customary to remove or cover all the mirrors in a house of mourning,” Boner says. “We’ve fogged up all the bathroom mirrors as well. This is a time to avoid any and all impulses toward personal vanity and simply reflect on your father’s life.”
    We all nod, the way you would at a self-indulgent museum tour guide, taking the path of least resistance to get to the snack bar.
    “A little while ago, your father called me to the hospital,” Boner says. He was a tense, chubby kid, and now he’s a tense, beefy man, with rosy cheeks that make him look perpetually angry or embarrassed. I don’t know exactly when Boner found God; I lost track of him after high school. Boner, not God. I