Nine Perfect Strangers by Liane Moriarty Read Free Book Online Page A

recently had been about one of her Instagram posts. It was a photo of her in a bikini top, leaning over, pushing her arms together so her new boobs looked even bigger and pouting her puffy new lips at the camera. She’d asked what he thought of the photo, her face all hopeful, and because of her hopeful face he hadn’t said what he really thought—that it looked like she was advertising a cheap escort service. He’d just shrugged and said, “It’s okay.”
    Her hopeful face fell. You’d think he’d called her a name. Next thing he knew she was screaming at him (these days she could go from zero to a hundred in a second) and he felt sucker-punched, unable to understand what had just happened. So he’d walked away while she was in the middle of yelling and went upstairs to play the Xbox. He thought walking away was a good thing to do. A mature, manly thing to do. To disengage and give her time to calm down. He kept getting these things wrong. She ran up the stairs after him and grabbed the back of his T-shirt before he reached the top.
    â€œLook at me!” she screamed. “You don’t even look at me anymore!”
    And it killed him to hear her say that, because it was true. He avoided looking at her. He was trying really hard to get over that. There were men who stayed married to women who were disfigured by accidents, burns or scars or whatever. It shouldn’t make a difference that Jessica was disfigured by her own hand. Not literally her own hand. Her own credit card. Willful disfigurement.
    And then all her stupid friends encouraged her, “Oh my God, Jessica, you look incredible.”
    He wanted to yell at them, “Are you blind? She looks like a chipmunk!”
    The thought of separating from Jessica was like having his guts ripped out, but these days being married to Jessica was like having his guts ripped out. Whatever way you looked at it: guts ripped out.
    If this retreat worked, if they got back to the way they used to be, it was even worth the damage to the car. Obviously it was worth it. Jessica was meant to be the mother of his children—his future children.
    He thought of the day of the robbery, two years ago now. He remembered the way her face—it was still her own beautiful face back then—had crumpled like a little kid’s, and the rage he’d felt. He’d wanted to find those fuckwits and smash their faces.
    If not for the robbery, if not for the fuckwits, they wouldn’t be at this place. He wouldn’t have the car, but at least he wouldn’t be stuck here for the next ten days.
    On balance, he still wanted to smash their faces.
    â€œBen!”
    Jessica beckoned him over. She was all social and smiley, like they hadn’t just been yelling at each other. She was so good at that. They could drive to a party and fight all the way, not say a word to each other as they walked up someone’s stairs, and then the door of the apartment opens and—bang—different person. Laughing, joking, teasing him, touching him, taking selfies, like they were so having sex tonight, when they were so not having sex tonight.
    Then, back in the car on the way home, she’d restart the fight. It was like flicking a switch on and off. It freaked him out. “It’s just good manners,” she told him. “You don’t take your fight to a party. It’s no one else’s business.”
    He straightened up, adjusted his cap, and went over to stand beside Jessica to perform like her monkey.
    â€œThis is my husband, Ben,” said Jessica. “Ben, this is Frances. She’s doing the same retreat as us. Well, probably not exactly the same …”
    The lady smiled up at him from the driver’s seat. “That’s a very fancy car, Ben,” she said. She spoke as if she already knew him. Her voice was snuffly and hoarse, the tip of her nose bright red. “It’s likesomething from a