Free Love Stories in This Town by Amanda Eyre Ward Page A

dining room, I found my sister, Jennifer. She was pregnant and miserable. She wore a Burberry headband and her roots were showing. “I've never been sober at one of these before,” she said. “It's hell.”
    I laughed. “You might have a husband, but at least I can drink,” I said. Jennifer turned those brown eyes on me.
    “Why do you go and say things like that?” she said. I shrugged. “Did you call my therapist?” she said. “I'm going to keep asking, Casey, till you make an appointment.”
    “I made an appointment,” I said. “I'm going next Thursday.”
    “Really?” said Jennifer.
    “Yes, really,” I said. “What am I, a four-year-old?”
    “I'm glad,” said Jennifer, touching my arm. “Alexa has really helped me with my panic disorder. Alexa and the Zoloft.”
    “I wonder why a rib,” I mused.
    Jennifer sighed. “What?”
    “It's just so … random. Why a rib? Why not a collarbone?” Jennifer looked intently at the wallpaper behind me, a melange of African animals. “How are you feeling?” I asked.
    “What?”
    “I mean with the morning sickness and all. Do you feel crummy?”
    “Yes,” said Jennifer.
    “Me too,” I said. “But I'm not pregnant.”
    “No,” said Jennifer. “You're not.”
    We had thought about it, Paul and I. There had always been a reason to believe the next year would be a better year to become parents. Paul's bonus, my big new writer. Fucking Hal Underson, whose novel, A Kiss in Kandahar , finally went to a lousy little press in St. Louis. I'd had big plans for Hal, maybe even a movie deal. My 15 percent of Hal was about a thousand dollars. So we'd waited.
    “No,” I said to my sister. “I'm not.”
    Jennifer's husband, Lawrence, came up behind her, holding out a mini quiche. “Yummy,” he said, pushing the morsel toward Jennifer's mouth.
    “Get it away from me,” said Jennifer.
    “Suit yourself,” said Lawrence.
    “Suit yourself?” I said. “Are we really old enough to say 'Suit yourself?” I laughed, but then realized that both Jennifer and Lawrence were sober.
    “Casey,” said Jennifer, “Lawrence has a friend you should meet. He's in arbitrage, a really nice guy. Skidmore BA, Harvard MBA.”
    “Jen,” said Lawrence, “perhaps this isn't the best of times?”
    “Are you quoting Dickens?” said Jennifer.
    “I'm trying to be thoughtful,” said Lawrence.
    “What's this guy's name?” I interrupted.
    “Kent,” said my sister.
    “Oh,” I said. “Kent? Are you sure?”
    “He is nice,” admitted Lawrence.
    “Nice dull?” I said.
    “No, nice like he's not an asshole,” said Jennifer.
    “Is he my type?” I said.
    Jennifer and Lawrence looked uncomfortable. “I have a type,” I said. “And it's tall and blond. Ponytailed, actually.”
    Lawrence cleared his throat. “But Paul is … I mean Paul was …”
    “Just because I married a short Jew doesn't mean I can't have a different type,” I said. I laughed, but it came out strangled. “I'm not crying,” I explained, “I'm just very tired.”
    “I'll give him your number,” said Jennifer. “Kent.”
    “Well, I'm off to the bar,” I said. I left my sister feeling sorry for me and worried about me. She had enough to worry about, and I wished she'd just ignore me, just treat me like a rib in the corner of the room.
    My mother gave me a ride after the party. She asked if I'd like to stay over at home. “I have a home,” I said.
    “I meant my home,” she said.
    “Spend the night in my old room, like I'm fifteen?” I said. “No spank you.”
    “You should really watch it with the booze,” said my mother. She put on her blinker and we took a left, out of Indian Village. Underneath the train tracks, some rich kids dressed as poor kids were skateboarding. “Watch it, yo!” yelled a redhead with his pants so low his boxer shorts were showing.
    “You know something?” said my mother.
    “No,” I said. “I don't know anything.”
    “Well, I'll tell you,” said my