The After Wife by Gigi Levangie Grazer Read Free Book Online

is, but it sounds like farm porn.
    “I’m not even on Facebook, you know that. I don’t Twitter, Linx, or Plaxo. What is a Plaxo?”
    “John was on Facebook,” Jay said.
    “Yes, I know,” I said, getting annoyed. Like I didn’t know everything about John. “He had a fan page. For his books.”
    Jay pursed his lips.
    “What’s that look?”
    “That look says, ‘Do I tell my widowed best friend that her husband had a personal page on Facebook?’ ”
    “I don’t like that look,” I said. “Where’s my laptop?”
    “How are you going to get on his page?” Jay asked. “It’s not like he’s around to friend you.”
    I found my laptop. “Go on your page,” I ordered. “You were Facebook friends, right?”
    Jay gave me another look.
    “That look says … ‘I’m not sure I want to be a party to this. It could ruin my night, or, at least, the ability to raid your refrigerator for limes whenever I need them,’ ” I said.
    “You’re good,” Jay said. He logged on. Jay’s page came up. Jay’s profile picture? A half-naked photo of Jay, taken in Cabo over a fourteen-day weekend.
    “Photoshop!” I said. Jay had great abs for a forty-something, but those were NOT his triceps. Somewhere, a twenty-five-year-old Cuban was missing his guns.
    “Do I judge you for sending out the same eighteen-year-old photo to the trades whenever we get a new production deal? You look like an Aniston sibling, for Baby Jesus’s sake!”
    “Okay, okay,” I said. I looked up John Bernal on Jay’s list of 1,438 friends.
    “Where’d you find all these people?” I asked.
    “Terrorists … trannies …,” he replied. “They just find me. I don’t friend chunky monkeys.”
    “What if you get a terrorist who’s a fat tranny?”
    “Then, I have a moral dilemma,” Jay said. “Okay, there’s John.”
    John had posted a picture taken in our kitchen, grinning over a perfectly golden-brown deep-fried turkey.
    “Thanksgiving …,” I whispered. Tears sprang to my eyes. I got that same sick feeling in my stomach, clawing its way into my throat. Would I be sad forever?
    John’s “wall” was filled with sorrowful messages. An endless stream of “sorrys” and “sadness,” “sorrow,” “goodbye,” and “love” and memories old and recent.
    I scrolled through older posts.
    There he was, alive and cheerful. Virtual high fives and how are you doings? and how’s your family? Good to “see” you here! “Nice to meet you, too” …
    Jay put his hands on my shoulders and whispered into my ear. “You okay, baby?” he asked. I just nodded.
    “You don’t think he had another family somewhere, right?” I asked Jay.
    “God, no,” Jay said. “That’s only neo-conservatives and CharlesKuralt. That one surprised me. But you know, I always thought he was sexy. A total ‘bear.’ ”
    “John’s ‘friends’ with Gwyneth Paltrow? He knows how I feel about those ‘I Am Africa’ posters! And those radio spots for Estée Lauder?”
    “Estée Older?” Jay asked.
    Jay shut the computer down. “Enough,” he said. “I’ve seen this movie … remember Harrison Ford and Kristin Scott Thomas in that airplane crash movie?”
    “The one where they find out their spouses were screwing each other, and then they screw each other?”
    “I black out when it comes to Harrison Ford French-kissing,” Jay said.
    “We had no time to screw anyone else,” I said. “Jay, do you realize … for the rest of my life, I’m going to have to tell people about his death.”
    “Remember this, pudding,” Jay said. He put his finger under my chin and gazed into my eyes. “When you feel sorry for yourself, that you are the bearer of this terrible news. Remember that you had the ultimate privilege. True love.”
    I watched Jay tear up, and nodded, silent, as salty tears descended into the corners of my mouth. Salty? Who am I kidding? They tasted more like pinot.
    “Don’t be jealous,” I said. “Someday you’ll