Read Online You're Not You by Michelle Wildgen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michelle Wildgen
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we have lunch, Evan appeared at the door of the kitchen, briefcase in hand, and said, “Bec, you don’t need me today.”
I fought the urge to say that I did indeed need him, that yesterday’s confidence had proved so misguided it was almost funny, would be funny if it weren’t for the fact that he seemed to have believed it and was now leaving his wife at my mercy. I had been staying a few feet away from her whenever I could, nervous about touching her unnecessarily. Her kneecaps and elbows seemed brittle and easily bruised. Instead Ihovered nearby, keeping a loose orbit around her, just close enough that I could smell the cream in her hair.
“You’re doing fine,” he continued. “I’m just running to the office to catch up a little.”
“Okay,” I said. I had no choice. I smiled brightly and falsely at them and turned back to the sandwich I was making. Behind me I heard the sound of a kiss and Kate’s faint, warm murmur.
It seemed to me I spent a fair amount of time glancing in the other direction so he could kiss her. After he left we sat quietly together in the kitchen, the house seeming very empty. Had I paid as little attention to her directly as it suddenly seemed, now that there was no third party to focus on?
Now she and I were in the study, organizing various papers, insurance, financial stuff. I wasn’t exactly privy to any major information, but I had figured out where the money came from. I saw from a photo that Kate’s family had a huge house near Chicago—it made this house look almost as small as the one I grew up in—thanks to her grandfather’s early patents on a chemical compound that had something to do with oranges. I hadn’t quite gotten it straight, but suffice it to say her family was deep in trust-fund territory. I’d never met anyone who actually came from money. It wasn’t very common in Wisconsin.
I thought I’d like this part of the job, the neat piles of triplicate copies and rational system of filing. She even had her own copy machine. It was efficient and absorbing, easily accomplished. Too bad it wasn’t all like this.
“He’s a grad assistant. And a writer,” I was telling her. “He used to have a music column.” This was also how he’d met his wife, who’d been a friend of the editor’s.
Kate grinned and looked away toward the wall for a moment while she took a swallow. She had a way of shifting her gaze while she prepared to speak, and I’d learned to give her a moment, not to follow her every glance around. I wondered what she would say if I went ahead and told her the rest of it.
“Sounds like a keeper,” she said. I understood her a little better now. I was forced to, like an immersion program. You had to watch her lips; half the cues lay in the familiar shapes you saw people formevery day but never noticed. The sound she made was almost less important than the way she shaped the air.
She said, “You should bring him by sometime.”
“Soon,” I said vaguely. I wanted her to meet him. Or, more accurately, I wanted him to meet someone, to be able to introduce him for once, like a regular boyfriend. But you couldn’t be sure who knew whom. The only reason I had indulged myself by talking about him was that I thought she was safely distant from my life and his, so completely secure and contentedly married. But I regretted it now—it only reminded me how sleazy it would have felt, bringing my adulterous boyfriend over for coffee, wedding ring stashed in his pocket. I tried to change the subject. “Anyway, you probably could care less about boyfriends and stuff. It must be nice to be done with all that.”
Kate made a face: raised her eyebrows, turned the corners of her mouth down.
“It’s not perfect,” she said.
I STOPPED AT THE library on my way home, where
Living with ALS
was waiting for me. I took the book to a café near my house and sat down with a giant iced coffee, into which I had put an extra spoonful of sugar. For a few
I fought the urge to say that I did indeed need him, that yesterday’s confidence had proved so misguided it was almost funny, would be funny if it weren’t for the fact that he seemed to have believed it and was now leaving his wife at my mercy. I had been staying a few feet away from her whenever I could, nervous about touching her unnecessarily. Her kneecaps and elbows seemed brittle and easily bruised. Instead Ihovered nearby, keeping a loose orbit around her, just close enough that I could smell the cream in her hair.
“You’re doing fine,” he continued. “I’m just running to the office to catch up a little.”
“Okay,” I said. I had no choice. I smiled brightly and falsely at them and turned back to the sandwich I was making. Behind me I heard the sound of a kiss and Kate’s faint, warm murmur.
It seemed to me I spent a fair amount of time glancing in the other direction so he could kiss her. After he left we sat quietly together in the kitchen, the house seeming very empty. Had I paid as little attention to her directly as it suddenly seemed, now that there was no third party to focus on?
Now she and I were in the study, organizing various papers, insurance, financial stuff. I wasn’t exactly privy to any major information, but I had figured out where the money came from. I saw from a photo that Kate’s family had a huge house near Chicago—it made this house look almost as small as the one I grew up in—thanks to her grandfather’s early patents on a chemical compound that had something to do with oranges. I hadn’t quite gotten it straight, but suffice it to say her family was deep in trust-fund territory. I’d never met anyone who actually came from money. It wasn’t very common in Wisconsin.
I thought I’d like this part of the job, the neat piles of triplicate copies and rational system of filing. She even had her own copy machine. It was efficient and absorbing, easily accomplished. Too bad it wasn’t all like this.
“He’s a grad assistant. And a writer,” I was telling her. “He used to have a music column.” This was also how he’d met his wife, who’d been a friend of the editor’s.
Kate grinned and looked away toward the wall for a moment while she took a swallow. She had a way of shifting her gaze while she prepared to speak, and I’d learned to give her a moment, not to follow her every glance around. I wondered what she would say if I went ahead and told her the rest of it.
“Sounds like a keeper,” she said. I understood her a little better now. I was forced to, like an immersion program. You had to watch her lips; half the cues lay in the familiar shapes you saw people formevery day but never noticed. The sound she made was almost less important than the way she shaped the air.
She said, “You should bring him by sometime.”
“Soon,” I said vaguely. I wanted her to meet him. Or, more accurately, I wanted him to meet someone, to be able to introduce him for once, like a regular boyfriend. But you couldn’t be sure who knew whom. The only reason I had indulged myself by talking about him was that I thought she was safely distant from my life and his, so completely secure and contentedly married. But I regretted it now—it only reminded me how sleazy it would have felt, bringing my adulterous boyfriend over for coffee, wedding ring stashed in his pocket. I tried to change the subject. “Anyway, you probably could care less about boyfriends and stuff. It must be nice to be done with all that.”
Kate made a face: raised her eyebrows, turned the corners of her mouth down.
“It’s not perfect,” she said.
I STOPPED AT THE library on my way home, where
Living with ALS
was waiting for me. I took the book to a café near my house and sat down with a giant iced coffee, into which I had put an extra spoonful of sugar. For a few
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