Happily Ever After: A Novel by Elizabeth Maxwell Read Free Book Online Page B

small child, a solo trip to Target can feel downright bittersweet.
    I turn in at the toilet paper and spend a full minute I will never get back considering which product to heave into my cart. Am I willing to wipe my ass with the equivalent of sandpaper and save the rain forests, or should I go with something that doesn’t remove the outer layer of my epidermis upon application but will surely cause the downfall of human civilization? This is exactly how a trip to Target can end up taking all morning. I grab the two-ply store brand and push on toward the laundry detergent.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a man in Baby Products. He stands between a pink Pack ’n Play and a deluxe model ExerSaucer, decorated with a lot of sparkling stuffed fish. His arms flap at his sides like the wings of a baby albatross ready to take that first step off the cliff. With wild eyes, a flushed face, and bits of sweaty black hair stuck to his forehead, he looks insane. Which means I have no choice but to stop and stare. My cartwheels screech on the recently waxed floor. A loud voice interrupts the benign music to announce a special on beach towels.
    “It’s so hot outside,” the voice says. “Stock up on these beautiful towels now!”
    The man wears a dark custom-made suit over a starched white shirt and a red tie. The tie is too bright, the crimson unnatural looking. About halfway down his right leg, his pants are torn, revealing a wound encrusted with dark, dried blood. Mud cakes the bottoms of his Italian leather shoes, but somehow the mud is the wrong color, not quite earthy enough. Did he crawl through dried-out Play-Doh on his way here?
    As I gawk, his arms slow down and finally come to rest at his sides. He spins in a slow circle, frowning, clearly confused to find himself surrounded by portable cribs and baby swings. He grabs one of the shiny fish from the ExerSaucer and rubs it against his grubby face. Pedophile? Lunatic? It doesn’t matter, because I have actually stopped breathing. This man with the torn suit and the dirty shoes and the really weird relationship with toy fish might be the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. My jaw hangs open like I left my IQ back there with the toilet paper.
    Before any drool can actually escape, I close my mouth. Beautiful or not, this man is not having fun. He’s in a bad way. Confused. He returns the fish to the ExerSaucer and runs his fingers roughly through his thick hair, twisting a longer front bit around and around until it seems he will pull the hair right out of his head. He winces and releases the hair, burying his face in his hands. He inhales deeply and repeatedly. When he finally looks up again, his eyes are calmer. He doesn’t smile, but he no longer looks on the verge of an adult-size meltdown. He shakes out his shoulders, his arms, his wrists. He circles his neck a few times and bends down to touch his toes.
    The suburbs are home to many weird people, believe me, but most of them are smart enough to practice their weirdness behind closed doors. It’s safer that way. No one wants to play for Team Deviant.
    I push my cart toward the man, who is now jogging in place. The fluorescent lights overhead pop and crackle with static. The tightness in my chest from this morning returns, mild enough that I don’t fall to the floor gasping, but still, I’m aware of it. I rest my hand on my purse. The Xanax is in there if it gets any worse. This makes me feel much better.
    “Excuse me,” I say. The stranger is even better up close. His dark green eyes are framed by long lashes, the kind every mascara commercial promises to provide. His skin is clear and pale, like my marble countertops, but it radiates heat from within, giving him a rosy glow. He’s young, twenty-five, thirty at the most.
    “You’re not planning on running a marathon in those shoes, are you?” I ask. The man startles like I just poked him with a cattle prod.
    While he gives me the once-over, I have a