The Secret Life of Prince Charming by Deb Caletti Read Free Book Online Page B

own mirror. Which meant this was a competition I would always lose, which meant I would feel like shit in the end, which meant I would get what some fucked-up part of my psyche was after.
    It’s weird how much of a relationship isn’t even really about him or you, but about some other, alternate world where you’re working out your garbage from childhood. Love, as some walk through a mental junkyard, where you look for the broken carburetor that maybe will make your personal car run. Whichever parent you had the most trouble with, watch out—you’ll be looking for that type, in some version or another. You’ve got to be so clear about what you’re playing out. That, I know. Distant mother—bingo, you’re suddenly into some unavailable guy with a girlfriend. Or you’re going for the one who smothers you, because you’re trying to get what you didn’t have.Understand your own story, is the point. My sister and I were magnets for impossible-to-please narcissists. I just walk around with the invisible target on my chest. Egomaniacs inquire within. And no wonder—look at Mary Louise and Barry, and then at Mary Louise’s father, Rocky Siler. And look at Otto, that dick, and Mom. Otto, 50 percent of my genetic material, strutting around and talking with his notice-me boom. Telling everyone how he used to drive a freaking Rolls Royce. He’d flirt with a lamppost.
    I liked Hank Peters for his superiority and then dumped him because he was always acting superior.
    Everyone was in bed when I got home, or I thought so at first. I went into the dark kitchen to get something to drink and gave a little screech when I realized someone was sitting at the kitchen table. It was Aunt Annie, just sitting there, drinking red wine out of a juice glass, the bottle sitting in front of her.
    “What are you doing?” I asked.
    “I thought you were home already. I thought everyone was in bed. I just got back from my date with Quentin.”
    “Must have been great,” I said. “Drinking away the memories?”
    “No, no…,” she said. “It was great. Really great.” She was wearing a sparkly top and jeans, but her eyes looked tired. The curls she’d made in her hair were tired too, relaxing back to their old normal straight selves.
    “Yeah?”
    “He’s got the greatest eyes. Did you see him in the magazine?” Northwest Homes For Sale magazine. Quentin Ferrill wasone of those real estate agents who felt that their picture would send the clients flocking. I nodded. Annie had left the magazine open to his page, him and the six bulky, high-end homes he was selling, some photographed at sunset. “He’s really into art, did I tell you? He used to teach at the university level, but didn’t like academia. Real estate gives him more freedom. But those are the kinds of words he uses— academia .”
    “Smart, then.”
    “God, beyond that. I can feel like such an idiot, compared. He’s always mentioning certain painters…The Fauvre Style …”
    “Do you like that?” I was still trying to understand the half-empty bottle.
    “I love that. I love everything about him. And he’s different than anyone else I’ve been with. He is. Not so full of himself. More vulnerable. I just don’t know what he feels about me. I mean, he asks me out, right? He looks into my eyes? But then I took his hand and he pulled away. What’s with that? I don’t get it. I don’t get what’s going on.”
    Ivar snored underneath the table at Aunt Annie’s feet. “It’s early,” I said. “Maybe he’s just…sorting out his feelings.”
    “Yeah,” Aunt Annie said.
    “I’m the wrong person to ask.”
    Aunt Annie didn’t think so. Or maybe she was just in that place where you need someone, anyone, to tell you what you need to hear. “He must like me if he asks me out, right?”
    “He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t like you,” I agreed.
    “I hate this,” she said. “It was the best night I’ve ever had, but I hate this.”
    I went to the