Best Intentions by Emily Listfield Read Free Book Online Page A

you’re not with him?”
    â€œAll right, so maybe our relationship is not always the healthiest one. I do wish he was more invested,” she concedes. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m with Ben because there’s no one else or there’s no one else because I’m with Ben.” She looks up. “Aren’t there any divorced fathers at Weston you can introduce me to?”
    â€œSince when is fatherhood on your list of dating prerequisites? Haven’t you heard of alimony, child support, psychotic ex-wives?”
    â€œOne of the things I like best about Ben is what a good parent he is. You have to at least give him that.”
    â€œYes,” I agree. I have to admit that Ben is one of the most involved fathers I know, not out of show but from a genuine desire and delight in his children’s lives. He volunteers at school fairs and potluck dinners, he helps decorate pageants and spends hours with art projects. It is hard for me to reconcile his fierce paternal attachment with the slipperiness of his other affections.
    â€œHow many kids am I going to have at this point?” Deirdre continues, playing with a strand of hair. “One if I’m lucky. I like the idea of a man who already has children.”
    â€œYou realize that you are probably the only woman in New York who feels this way?”
    â€œGood, that leaves the field open.”
    â€œYou’re only thirty-nine,” I remind her.
    â€œFor seven more weeks. Besides, thirty-nine is young if you’re married with two children. If you have a boyfriend who can’t commit and you want a family, it’s geriatric. Right now I’m someone who happens to be single. It’s my situation, not my identity. It’s not set in stone. But there’s a line. Once you cross it, people don’t even bother to ask if you’re seeing anyone anymore. Your singledom is ingrained. I’m terrified of that,” she confesses. “Turning forty is the goddamned Rubicon.” She pauses. “You have no idea how lucky you are.”
    â€œI’m not so sure about that.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    I play with the edges of my napkin.
    â€œLisa?”
    â€œI think Sam may be having an affair.” Saying the words out loud transforms what was a whispery suspicion, a cloud that existed in my mind alone, into something concrete, with its own shape and weight; once launched into the external world it is impossible to dismiss.
    â€œWhat?”
    I tell Deirdre about the phone call, the woman. “‘Same place.’ She said, ‘Same place.’” I can hear the panic in my voice and try to push it down.
    â€œI can’t believe you listened to his messages.”
    â€œYou’re missing the point here.”
    â€œHave you done that before?”
    â€œCan we please get past that?”
    â€œLisa, he told you he was meeting a source. I’m sure that’s all it is.”
    â€œSam said the source was a man. He said ‘he.’”
    â€œYou’re not sure of that.”
    â€œI’m pretty sure.”
    She considers this. “I once went on a date with a guy who refused to use pronouns. You know, ‘I’ did this, ‘we’ did that. I kept trying to trip him up and I couldn’t. I finally asked if he was divorced or separated and he told me he was married but they had a don’t ask/don’t tell policy. Can you imagine?” She plays with her eggs, making patterns with their unappetizing border. “I wonder how many relationships have been done in by pronouns.”
    â€œWe’re off-point here,” I remind her.
    She looks directly at me, her gold-flecked eyes steady and sure. “Sam loves you. He always has. It’s who he is.”
    â€œMaybe I don’t know who he is anymore.”
    â€œC’mon, you two are closer than any couple I’ve ever known.” Deirdre has always been dismissive of the