One True Theory of Love by Laura Fitzgerald Read Free Book Online Page A

while. That’s incredible foreplay. Since then he’d folded the laundry exactly twice. It hadn’t helped matters when Amy found a stack of Playboy s and Penthouse s shoved in their back closet, asked David why he’d not mentioned them, and he’d mumbled something about how he figured that if Amy knew about them, she’d make him mop the floors before letting him indulge. If you won’t come hither, at least let me have them, he’d said. With no housework required.
    His reasoning hadn’t gone over well with Amy, to say the least. She felt he should Help Out rather than Jack Off.
    “Did you hear about Dad?” Meg asked, changing the subject.
    “About how he’s having an affair?” Amy rolled her eyes. “Yes, a million times.”
    “He’s not having an affair! Don’t even joke about that.” Clarabelle tossed out the affair accusation fairly regularly, and it always infuriated Meg. Jonathan had affairs, not her father. “I saw him last night, and I have the feeling he’s honestly thinking about moving out. Mom said he’s been talking about do-overs and second chances.”
    “Promise you’ll shoot me if my marriage ever turns into theirs,” Amy said.
    It was already heading in that direction, from what Meg could tell. “Hire a housecleaner,” she advised. “And have more sex.”
    As Amy smirked at her, Clarabelle’s ten-year-old Honda Civic pulled into the driveway, and their mother climbed out. She was alone, a most unusual Sunday-morning occurrence.
    “Speak of the devil,” Amy said.
    “Where’s Dad?” Meg asked Amy.
    “Having his affair.”
    “Amy,” Meg rebuked, “knock it off.”
    “I will,” Amy said, “if you’ll take off your rose-colored glasses and grow up.”
    “Geez,” Meg said. “Unnecessary.” She did her best flounce off and went to the door to greet Clarabelle. “Hi, Mom,” she said. “Where’s my dad?”
    Clarabelle brushed past Meg and set the bowl of potato salad she’d brought on the counter. “Your father’s cleaning out the garage. After thirty years, all of a sudden he’s in a rush to clean out the garage.”
    He’s moving out, Meg thought. He’s definitely getting ready to move out.
    “Better late than never, right?” Amy said.
    Clarabelle slapped her palm on the counter. “That’s exactly what he said.” Without another word—without even waiting for Meg to pour a glass of wine for her from the bottle of chardonnay she and Amy had tapped into—Clarabelle headed to the backyard, where the kids were playing.
    “There’s trouble in paradise,” Meg said. “Mark my words.”
    “There’s always been trouble,” Amy said. “And it’s never been paradise.”

M eg went through the week as if Ahmed were a fly on the wall watching her every move. She always dressed cute for her kindergartners—kind of bouncy, kind of bopsy—but that week, she took extra time in the morning to make sure her skirts were ironed and to blink on a little mascara. She wore heels to school and reapplied her tinted lip gloss during breaks.
    The fantasy she had of Ahmed observing her caused Meg’s mood to heighten as well. Colors were brighter. She was funnier. Kinder. Sexier. Quite simply, the very idea of him enriched her life.
    Meg realized exactly what she was doing—performing for a guy she’d spent less than an hour with and who, oh, by the way, wasn’t there. But what was the harm? It didn’t hurt anybody.
    In fact, it helped everyone. Meg’s students got extra attention, in particular sweet Marita, who’d taken to sitting with Meg on the bench outside at recess until Meg joined in the jump-roping and four-squaring and hula-hooping. Only then would Marita participate. When he pestered, Henry got that extra bowl of ice cream and Meg even refrained from commenting more than once a day about the dirty underwear he felt compelled to leave on the bathroom floor.
    Meg fantasized about looking to her classroom door and finding Ahmed there, leaning against the doorframe,