I Know What I'm Doing by Jen Kirkman Read Free Book Online Page A

months later and tell her that all of that had been for nothing, and I couldn’t make my marriage work. How could I expect to be forgiven?
    I started to tell Allison everything. She stopped me. “You’re building a case. You don’t have to. Your feelings are valid enough.” No one had ever put it to me that way before. She told me that she had a feeling I hadn’t been happy in a while. I asked her, “Why didn’t you tell me I seemed unhappy?”
    “Jen, friends are here for when you’re ready to tell them ,” she said. “But don’t leave your husband for this other guy.”
    “No. It’s not about Kevin. It’s about me. I don’t know me anymore. I want to be alone.”
    “Jen, you’re the only woman I know who says things like ‘as she’s nearing forty she’d rather be alone than married.’ ”
    “That’s how I know this is really how I feel. Because it makes no fucking sense.”
    Allison said, “I know that this is the right thing because when you got married you talked about what you should be doing and what other people do. This is the first time in years I’ve heard my old friend talk about who she is and what she wants. We have walked up and down these streets for ten years as girlfriends and you sound like you’re in your twenties again, in a good way. You were always so sure of who you truly were back then. And a lot of us who were a little older than you thought, ‘Where does that twentysomething get off knowing what she’s doing?’ And when you get divorced so many guys that were probably bummed you were married are going to come out of the woodwork. You lucky bitch.”
    I looked at the second cheese board and lost my appetite. I was happy talking to Allison. I felt like myself again. And when I’m happy I don’t abuse cheese. Cheese is a privilege.
    I picked up the tab—which was the least I could do for Allison, who’d found me two undercover cops that I was off to meet before dusk, and who danced with my lonely cousin at my wedding.

6
    MANHATTAN BURGLAR MYSTERY
Give me such shows—give me the streets of Manhattan!
—WALT WHITMAN
    I was standing outside of the box office at Radio City Music Hall, not to buy tickets to the Rockettes but to meet the two plainclothes undercover cops who were going to help me get my phone back. It was a real sting operation. I couldn’t believe that two professionals were willing to spend off-duty time helping an emotionally cheating woman retrieve her stolen BlackBerry. I was considering leaving my marriage but I still wasn’t ready for an upgrade to an iPhone.
    As I waited anxiously for the arrival of these two men, I considered slipping into a Sport Chalet to buy a bike helmet, something for protection in case bullets were going to fly. I didn’t know if the undercover cops were carrying but if they weren’t, what the hell separated them from just any guy on the street? A badge? Were criminals really afraid of badges? No BlackBerry Bandit is going to be spooked if a man flashes what looks like an elaborate belt buckle nestled inside of a leather passport cover.
    Since I had no phone and only the Thief’s phone number, I called him from a pay phone. He’d told me that he wanted a confirmation call from me that morning so that he could make sure that I was actually going to show up and not waste his time. His voice mail was full. I called three more times. I felt like a needy girlfriend. Why won’t he answer? Is he out stealing someone else’s phone?
    My next call was to Henry the Undercover Cop to confirm our location. “Got it. See you at Radio City Music Hall,” he said. “And never say out loud on the street where we are meeting.”
    I said, “I don’t think this guy who stole my BlackBerry has bugged this pay phone.”
    He said, “Ma’am, let me do my job.”
    I tried to keep the mood light. “Perfect! If we can’t find our culprit—maybe we can at least catch the first half hour of a show.”
    He didn’t laugh. Instead he