How to Talk to a Widower by Jonathan Tropper Read Free Book Online

fuck up. “Where’s Russ?”
    “Sleeping,” I said. “Claire.”
    “Yeah.”
    “I don’t know what to do.”
    “Just breathe. In and out. In and out.”
    “I’m thinking some pretty sick shit.”
    “You’re in shock. Okay, I’m in my car.”
    Moments later, there was a loud, protracted crashing sound.
    “Motherfucker!”
    “What was that?”
    “I just backed through the garage door.”
    “Jesus. You okay?”
    “I’m fine,” she said. “The whole damn door came down. I’ll just drive over it.”
    “Drive carefully.”
    “Whatever. Listen—” But she forgot that she was on her cordless and not her cell phone, and as soon as she turned out of her driveway she was out of range and the line went dead.

7

    THURSDAY AFTERNOON. LANEY’S ENDLESS HUG. SHE generally comes only on Tuesdays, but she tells me she was in the neighborhood.
    “You live in the neighborhood,” I point out stupidly.
    “Exactly,” she says, blushing, and it’s two p.m. and I’ve already put away a few preliminary shots of Jack Daniel’s, and she’s wearing this tight sleeveless blouse and her cleavage is like a warm, inviting smile so I’m not going to quibble. Her breath is hot on my ear, her fingers spread out like a web across the back of my neck, burrowing into my hair, and my face is pressed against the lightly freckled skin of her shoulder. Something’s happened with our legs, some trick of positioning, and they’ve become intertwined even as we stand there, so that I can feel the heat from her crotch through my jeans, and I’m sure she can feel the incipient commotion in my pants as well.
    This is wrong,
I think.
    There is no God,
I think.
    Hailey,
I think.
    And then,
There is no Hailey
.
    And that’s when I pull back and kiss Laney smack-dab on those plump, berry-colored lips, grabbing fistfuls of her red hair just behind her neck, and her mouth has anticipated me, is already open, her tongue snaking easily over mine and through my teeth. The kiss goes on forever. It’s many kisses, actually, packaged together like cereal at the price club, a continuous stream of clashing tongues and crushing lips, because if we stop there will be time to think, and no good will come from thinking. No good will come from screwing Laney, either, I know, but when did that ever stop anyone? After Tuesday’s close call, Laney came dressed for the kill today, skin tight and low cut in a short skirt, her long Coppertone legs waxed and buffed to a low sheen, and she had me at “Hello.”
    Hands start flying furiously, like Hong Kong choreography, pressing, cupping, stroking, and squeezing at targets under our clothing. Her fingertips run swiftly up and down my back, sliding under my T-shirt to tear at my skin, and mine slide up under her skirt to clutch at the curve of her naked ass. Doesn’t anyone wear underwear anymore? Because I do and, frankly, it’s about to become a problem. But she unfastens my belt buckle one-handed, her fingers encircling me tightly as my pants and boxers fall around my knees. She tries to mount me right there, backing me up against the fridge, fruit-shaped magnets and outdated calendars falling at our feet. But when has that ever really worked? Laney is my height in her heels, and we just can’t find the right angle. I see her eyes dart over to the kitchen table, but I have to eat off that table. The truth is that while I like sex as much as the next guy who hasn’t gotten laid in a year, I’ve learned that, contrary to what you see in the movies, floors bruise and rugs burn, and there’s just no substitute for a good bed. Going up to my and Hailey’s bedroom is out of the question, so I take Laney down to the guest room off the basement, where she shimmies out of her clothing and spreads her long, toned body invitingly across the comforter, gazing doe-eyed at me, her mouth open like a nested chick waiting for its mother’s beak. “Hurry,” she says, her voice thick with sex as I get momentarily