Free Living Single by Holly Chamberlin Page B

in the future.”
    “Okay,” I squeaked. And then I ran.
     
    I decided it was far, far safer to hang out with my girlfriends than to risk another date right then. Clearly, my stars were not aligned with the moon, or Mercury was in retrograde or God was pissed at me for entertaining lascivious thoughts about a married man.
    It was a stroke of seriously good luck that Maureen’s husband had four tickets to the Celtics vs. Bulls game at the Fleet Center for Tuesday night. Not just tickets, either. Supremely fine tickets, on the floor, just behind the team bench. Tickets Mark couldn’t use. Maureen didn’t tell me why he couldn’t use them, but I guessed it had something to do with the fact that she’d bought tickets for the theater the same night. Mark and his buddies hadn’t stood a chance. The pregnant wife rules, as she should.
    As often happened, the pregame talk turned to relationships, a topic I considered toxic after Anorexia, Fastidious, and Toot. Still, I couldn’t help tuning in.
    “What is it you’re looking for, anyway?” JoAnne was asking Abby. “No, really. I want to know.”
    “A soul mate.” Abby’s answer was unhesitant and definitive.
    JoAnne snorted. “Please. How old are you? Twelve?”
    Who’s twelve? I thought. JoAnne really should watch the snorting.
    “I don’t see why I can’t hold out for my soul mate,” Abby said.
    “You don’t? Okay, I’ll show you why. Turn around. See those women up about ten rows, in the center.” We all turned around to look.
    There were four young women, twenty-somethings. They looked like maybe they were Hispanic. They looked like Jennifer Lopez. They had gorgeous long hair, gorgeously done. They had flawless skin and fabulous makeup. They had tight, curvy bodies poured into expensive, very hip clothing. They had enormous diamond rings and long, French manicured nails. And they all looked supremely bored.
    They were the players’ wives.
    “There’s the reason,” JoAnne said as we all turned back to face the court. “You think those women held out for their soul mates? No. Those women knew a good thing when they saw it. A freakishly tall, very rich basketball player.”
    “Those women are like prostitutes,” Maggie said quietly. “They prostituted themselves for a husband. I’ll give you sex, you give me money. Here’s my heart in exchange for a fistful of cash.”
    “Yeah, and that’s such a bad thing,” JoAnne said, laughing. “Gosh, I wonder how they live with themselves.”
    “Don’t judge them, Maggie,” I said. “You don’t know anything about them, really.” I sneaked another peek. Damn. I would kill to look that good. Even one day in my life.
    And if I did, would Doug Spears suddenly love me?
    “They can’t be happy. Can they?” Abby mused.
    “Oh, yes they can. And they probably are. I would be.”
    “That’s the difference between us, JoAnne,” Abby said heatedly. “You don’t have a romantic bone in your body. You’re so pragmatic about everything.”
    “Look,” JoAnne went on, “I’m not saying I want to marry for money alone. I’m saying that if I did, I’d make the deal and be happy with it. It’s all about what you want. You decide that first, then go for it. Women have been making deals since the start of time. You think marriage was always so loaded with the frou-frou of romance? Please. That’s a relatively modern concept. Marriage was—and is—a deal. A business arrangement. If you want it to be romantic, too, fine. But that’s your choice. Not everybody has that choice, you know. Not every woman can be Elizabeth Bennet and land Mr. Darcy. Some women are Charlotte Lucas and take a Mr. Collins when he comes along because they know they’re not going to do better. Unfair? Sure. Life’s tough, get a helmet.”
    “JoAnne,” I mumbled, “I think we get the point here.” Maybe I can drown out the sound of her voice by slurping the last of this soda, I thought. Maybe the game will start soon.