Free The Starter Wife by Gigi Levangie Grazer Page A

strength of a hummingbird, combined with a mental state hovering between questionable and deeply questionable. Gracie had met Cricket in a Lamaze class; she was breast-feedingher two-year-old and pregnant with twins. Their husbands, recognizing a fellow showbiz inmate, had bonded right away. Gracie had “fallen in love” with Cricket the instant she told Gracie that Lamaze was a load of “hooey” (Cricket never swore) and that she only needed to know three words when giving birth: epidural. And: more epidural.
    And here was Will, Cricket’s opposite. “Sentiment” was not a feeling found in his emotional lexicon. He claimed he’d had all sentiment beaten out of him as a child, growing up homosexual in the California Third Reich, otherwise known as South Pasadena. His father had been a football coach at USC, his mother a member of the Junior League. He had grown up attending stadium football games every week; his favorite play was the huddle. His father had disowned him after Will seduced the quarterback, who didn’t need all that much encouragement. Will was an L.A.-phynate: Interior Decorator—Wife Of’s Best Friend. Gracie had invited Yin and Yang for lunch and was finding neither to be gratifying, spiritually or otherwise.
    “He never satisfied you,” Will said. “Let’s be frank. Speaking of which, I met a Frank the other day and I said, ‘Can I be frank?’ and he said, ‘Will you?’”
    Will sighed, “Wasn’t he the clever boy?”
    “Do you think we’re next?” Cricket sniffed again.
    “Cricket,” Gracie said, “you can’t actually ‘catch’ divorce.”
    Cricket looked at her, pained. “Did you hear Nick Cage got married again? To a young Asian waitress.”
    “Asian is the new black,” Will said.
    “Let’s stick to my own car wreck of a life,” Gracie said.
    People were starting to stare. A few of the overgroomed seemed to be pointing their manicured fingers in the direction of the sobbing peroxide blonde, her Chanel-clad friend withthe strained seams and expression, and the boyish fellow with the careful highlights. This in a town where no one would blink an eye if a building were to blow up in front of them—a fatalistic town where disaster was waiting behind every headline in
Variety
and behind every corner, just to the right of the Polo store.
    “You need to talk to my psychopharmacologist,” Cricket said, taking a business card from her Balenciaga. “You should start off with Klonopin—it’s strong, but under these circumstances, Wellbutrin is useless—”
    “Wellbutrin?” Will said. “You can’t smoke with Wellbutrin!”
    “Gracie’s not a smoker!” Cricket yelled. “Gracie, you haven’t started smoking again? You know it’s bad for babies!” Cricket was the type of mother who made hot lunches and never let another soul put her children to sleep; she was a wonderful, caring mother.Who would someday have to be institutionalized.
    “Don’t scream,” Will hissed at Cricket. “You get all wrinkled when you scream.”
    “Use your church voices,” Gracie said. “I don’t want to be wading in the gossip pool.” She said this even though she knew the news of her impending divorce was nearing the deep end of the rumor-ridden waters.
    “No one’s heard about your terrible breakup!” Cricket honked and assured her, placing her pale, younger-than-her hand on Gracie’s. Gracie noted her friend’s lack of freckling; Gracie noted the wedding ring. Gracie stiffened. What was Gracie supposed to do with her damned ring? She had taken off her diamond engagement ring, but she couldn’t return it—wasn’t there a statute of limitations on engagement ring returns?
    Like the Buddhist dilettante Gracie longed to be, she triedto find the positive in the moment. So she congratulated herself on not devouring the entire passel of breadsticks that came to the table. Although Gracie had eaten nonstop in the last day and a half, the divorce diet was still working. Why, Gracie