Best Intentions by Emily Listfield Read Free Book Online Page B

vicissitudes of my marriage. She needs to believe in us for some reason, or perhaps she, like other single people, assumes that a marriage once formed is monolithic, not given to the drama of their own romantic lives, a fact it is more convenient not to have to reconsider. “You could just ask him.”
    â€œI’d have to tell him I listened to his messages.”
    â€œYou’re right. Not a good idea. He’d never trust you again.”
    â€œTrust me? He’s the one meeting a woman and lying about it.”
    We sit in silence for a moment.
    â€œThere’s more,” I add.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHe said there’s something he wants to talk to me about later. Nothing good has ever followed a sentence like that.”
    â€œOh please. He probably wants to switch dry cleaners.”
    â€œWhy aren’t you taking me seriously?”
    â€œBecause I don’t think it is serious.”
    Of course, if Deirdre did take me seriously it would only make me feel worse. “You haven’t touched your breakfast,” I remark glumly. She has, in fact, spent the entire time poking at it as if it were toxic waste.
    Deirdre smiles and for the first time all morning, she looks almost embarrassed. “I haven’t seen Jack in so long. It’s a basic law of human nature—you must look as thin as possible when having dinner with an old boyfriend.”
    â€œAre you nervous?”
    â€œAbout tomorrow night?”
    â€œYes.”
    She considers this. “Not exactly nervous.”
    â€œReally? I am.”
    â€œYou mean because of our history?”
    â€œAmong other things.”
    â€œDon’t be. All has long since been forgiven. I’m sure it will be a perfectly peaceful evening.”
    â€œFunny, that’s not the first word that comes to mind when I think of you and Jack.”
    â€œActually, I’m kind of excited. And curious. Do you think chemistry has an expiration date?” she asks.
    â€œI’ve been wondering the same thing. In my case I hope not.”
    â€œAnd in my case?”
    â€œChrist, Deirdre. It’s been seventeen years. Jack’s married, you’re…”
    â€œNot.”
    â€œYou’re with someone. Even if there is some leftover ember, what good will it do you?”
    â€œEmber, I like that.” She smiles, pushing her uneaten food resolutely out of reach. “On that note, I should get going. I promised some East Village ex–rock star wannabe I’d look at her line of leather-free shoes. I can’t believe she gets up before noon but it’s part of her whole new ‘commitment’ thing. It’s a perfect setup, even if the shoes are hideous, I’ll look like an environmental ignoramus if I refuse to carry them.” She shakes her head. “I’ll give you a call later. In the meantime, try to relax about all this nonsense with Sam.” She nods to her upper arm. “Look at it this way, at least you don’t have to wear long-sleeved shirts all week.”
    â€œThe price of love.”
    â€œNot love. I don’t know what it is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not that.”
    We get the check and head out, kissing good-bye in front of the restaurant. I watch Deirdre walk a few yards, then stumble on her three-inch heels before righting herself. Her clumsiness is like a punctuation mark to her innate panache, a dent, and I love her for it. I wait until she and her disturbing fingerprints disappear into the eddy of commuters pouring out of Grand Central Terminal and then I begin to walk up Park Avenue to work, the murky coffee, the suspicion, still clinging to the back of my throat.

FOUR
    I walk into the lobby of 425 Park Avenue, swipe my ID card and ride in a crowded elevator up to the twelfth-floor offices of Steiner Public Relations, nodding hello to the two front-desk receptionists who are expertly juggling six phone calls between them—PR is a business of