Read Online You're Not the One (9781101558959) by Alexandra Potter - Free Book Online

beetroot. “It’s just been a while since I had great sex,” I hiss defensively, shuffling forward.
    â€œYou and me both, honey,” mutters a fiftysomething waitress, barging past with a tray of matzo-ball soup.
    â€œHow long’s a while?” persists Robyn, looking concerned.
    â€œOh, you know . . .”
    Ten years , pipes up a little voice in my head. Ten years since Italy. Since Nathaniel. Since you had great, mind-blowing, knock-your-socks-off sex .
    â€œA few months,” I say firmly. Well, that’s ridiculous. I must have had great, orgasmic sex since then. What about Sean? Or before that there was Anthony . . . or even the fling with the Scottish guy on my holiday to Spain when I was twenty-five. I can’t remember his name, but I remember he made this really funny noise when we did it, sort of like a squeaking . . . .
    Oh God. It’s true. It’s been ten years. Ten years without an orgasm.
    Well, not strictly .
    â€œMasturbation doesn’t count, by the way,” says Robyn, interrupting my thoughts.
    â€œIt doesn’t?” The hope in my voice is audible.
    â€œNuh-uh.” She shakes her head, her eyes flashing with amusement. Then suddenly a thought seems to hit her and her face fills with comprehension. “Oh my God, it’s him , isn’t it?” she says in a hushed voice. “He was the last time.”
    â€œWho?” I try to play dumb. I’m terrible. Annie was my only good role.
    â€œThe guy from Italy. Your everlasting love. The One .”
    Put like that, it sounds more than ridiculous. It sounds pathetic.
    â€œDon’t be silly. He’s not my everlasting love.” I give a scornful little laugh.
    â€œBut you said—”
    â€œHey, lady!”
    Our conversation is interrupted by a loud holler and I glance up to see a sullen man behind the counter scowling at me. It’s the same sullen man who serves me every day. I’ve never yet seen him smile or heard him grunt more than a couple of words. He jerks his bald head. This, I’ve learned, is my cue to order.
    â€œOne matzo-ball soup and a pastrami on rye,” I reply. I feel a beat of pleasure. Gosh, listen to me—I sound like a true New Yorker. Pastrami on rye .
    The sullen man grunts and starts carving up big chunks of pastrami.
    â€œOh, and a tuna melt,” I add.
    Tuna melts, I’ve discovered, are the most delicious things. Who would have thought melted cheese on tuna could be such a winning combo?
    He scowls, scribbles something on a piece of paper, which he stuffs through a hatch, and turns back to the heap of pastrami he’s carved.
    â€œThanks.” I smile brightly and turn back to Robyn, who’s having trouble deciding what to order. “Look, I said a lot of things the other night,” I say dismissively. “Like he married another woman, remember?”
    She looks at me for a moment. “You know, if you’re unable to reach orgasm, it might be because you’re still in love with someone else,” she says pointedly.
    â€œWhat part of ‘he’s married’ didn’t you understand?” I say equally as pointedly.
    She opens her mouth to protest, then thinks again and gives a reluctant sigh of defeat. “Jeez, that sucks. It was such a romantic story,” she says sadly.
    â€œSo is Romeo and Juliet ,” I reply, as we move toward the cash register, “and that didn’t turn out so well either.” I hand my receipt to the teller.
    â€œThat’ll be twenty-two dollars and forty-five cents,” he says, ringing it up.
    â€œHaven’t we met before?”
    In the middle of digging out my purse, I look up to see Robyn throwing a toothpaste-ad smile at the man behind the cash register. Well, I say ‘man,’ but he can’t be older than twenty. Gawkily tall with dark hair and a fuzzy mustache, he smiles nervously.
    â€œWe have?” he asks uncertainly. He