Tart by Jody Gehrman Read Free Book Online Page B

celery and stares at me a moment through his horn-rimmed glasses. He’s got very light blue eyes and a face that is harder to read than any face I’ve ever encountered. He goes back to slicing. “Are you serious?”
    â€œYes. Of course I’m serious.” I drink more of my milk and try not to think about the report I read once about cows in America being so mistreated and diseased that they get loads of pus in the product. Eugh. I put the glass down.
    â€œWhat about your boyfriend? Is he moving here, too?”
    â€œWhat boyfriend?” I’m unable to stop myself from this perverse response. Something about his calm, measured slicing of celery and his luminous white tile countertops are getting on my nerves. I remember now why I’ve only seen my father five or six times in the past ten years.
    â€œJason, wasn’t it?”
    I shift my weight and look at the ceiling. “Jonathan. We broke up.”
    â€œOh. I see.” He nods at the celery in a cryptic fashion.
    â€œAnyway,” I say, dumping the rest of my milk in the sink as inconspicuously as I can, “I’m moving to Santa Cruz. I just need to get a car and a place to live.” I stand there, staring at the ice cubes in the sink. I run the water so he won’t see the milk I dumped out, and that makes me remember the bathing fantasy I’ve been fueled by all day. I want to cry with relief when I think of my father’s hotel-sterile bathroom. “Can I take a shower?”
    â€œOh, sure, honey. Sure.” He’s more enthusiastic about this possibility than anything I’ve told him so far. “Extra towels in the hall closet.” Oh, God. My father’s white, fluffy, dryer-scented towels. I almost throw my arms around him in ecstasy. Then I remember that I don’t have anything to change into, and the thought of putting this wretched outfit on yet again turns my stomach.
    â€œYou think I could borrow a T-shirt, maybe some shorts?”
    He lets out a snort of awkward laughter. “Honey, where’s your suitcase?”
    â€œIt’s a really long story. Just—anything. Sweats, old jeans, whatever you’ve got.”
    â€œWell, okay. I’ll see what I can find. They’ll be in the guest room.”
    â€œThanks, Pop.” I walk over to him and, before I can get nervous or weird about it, kiss him on the cheek. “I really appreciate being able to come here.”
    â€œOh,” he says, smiling nervously, never taking his eyes from the celery. “Well.” And then, when I’m walking down the hall to the bathroom, he calls to my back, “You know you’re welcome, sweetie, anytime.” I think he means it, but something about the effort in his voice makes me want to cry.

CHAPTER 9
    To do:
    1) Buy fantastic, sexy, dependable, movie-star-quality car for under three hundred dollars.
    2) Do not think about Clay Parker. If absolutely must think of yurt experience, think of WIFE and add SELF at wrong end of .38 special.
    3) Find adorable, sexy, movie-star-quality pad for under five hundred dollars.
    4) When did I become a home-wrecker? Argh.
    5) Join gym. Go to gym. Thighs look like molded Jell-O.
    6) Make friends.
    7) DO NOT THINK ABOUT HIM.
    8) Transform self from hideous, kinky-haired, irresponsible car-thief home-wrecker into elegant, scarf-wearing professor. (Idea: highlights?)
    F or several days I use my father’s house as the base of operations while I continuously flip-flop between wild burstsof effort to get my life together and bouts of total despondency, during which I lie flat on my back in the guest room, stuffing my face with Pringles and watching cheesy Hugh Grant videos. This manic-depressive stretch hardly fulfills my hopes of returning triumphantly to California and emerging like a phoenix from my troubled past.
    I grew up here, in Calistoga, and coming home is like facing a firing squad of ghosts. I know loads of people are