Free The Home for Wayward Supermodels by Pamela Redmond Satran Page B

next to me. That combined with the memory of Tati dancing with her boyfriend made me long to feel Tom’s arms around me, tight as they had been in the airport.
    “Oh, Tommy,” I groaned, falling back onto my pillow. “I miss you so bad.”
    “Me too, baby,” he said huskily.
    “Can’t you come here, Tommy? Come to New York and visit me.”
    He was silent for a long minute, and then he said, “Nope.”
    “Oh, come on, Tom. It would be so much fun. I have an apartment where we could stay. I even have enough money to buy you a plane ticket.”
    “I have work,” he said.
    “So, some old rich guy doesn’t catch a trout. I really need to see you, Tommy.”
    “Come here,” he said.
    Now I was the one who went silent. If I could afford to buy him a ticket to visit me, I could afford to buy myself one to go back home. I didn’t have any work scheduled for this weekend; all I had to do was blow off Alex and Desi. I could fly home and back so quickly no one would ever have to know I was even gone.
    But I would know. And Tom would know, even if he didn’t tell my mom and Duke. That would be weird, trying to sneak around in a town where every single person knew me. Plus, the real point was that I wanted Tom to come here, so I could show him the place where I had my new life. And maybe if Tom were with me, I’d learn to feel more at home here.
    “I really want to take you around New York so when we talk you’ll know what I’m talking about,” I tried to explain. “We could go to Chinatown, to the top of the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty…”
    He interrupted me. “Can’t do it, Amanda.”
    I hesitated. “Why not?”
    “Work,” he said. “Money.”
    “But I already told you,” I began, “I have enough money and it wouldn’t have to be for long…”
    He interrupted me with a single word: “Can’t.”
    I knew what that meant, in Wisconsinese. It meant “won’t.” It meant “don’t want to.” Except wanting or not wanting to wasn’t considered a good enough reason for anything in Wisconsin.
    I felt slapped. I knew that pressing him wasn’t going to get me any more information or help me understand what was happening to us. Even if I were with him now, he probably wouldn’t tell me exactly why he couldn’t or wouldn’t come to New York to visit me. Maybe he didn’t even understand it himself.
    That made me realize not only how far apart we were, but that the distance was growing. Instead of feeling like he was right next to me on the pillow, or even a thousand miles away, it felt as if we lived on distant planets, with not even our language in common.
    “We were going to get married, Tom,” I said.
    He interrupted me. “Were?”
    That shook me. I felt my arms begin to tremble as my breath grew jagged.
    “Yes, were, ” I said. I was trying to keep my voice calm—Tom hated yelling—but I wasn’t succeeding. My volume began to rise as I felt myself grow more upset. “I was willing to live your life, Tom—fishing and hunting and camping and staying in Eagle River forever. So now that I have something of my own, why can’t you share my new world?”
    “That’s just not me, Amanda,” Tom said, his voice still maddeningly level. “If you want some guy to carry your fancy shopping bags and put a tie on to go to a chichi New York restaurant, you’re going to have to find somebody else.”
    “Maybe I will!” I screamed. “Maybe I’ll find somebody who doesn’t smell like worms and has been someplace more interesting than Milwaukee! ”
    Then I think I actually growled, and I slammed down the phone. I felt a moment of satisfaction—I showed him!—until I realized I was now more alone than ever.

six
    S o you broke up?”
    Desi and I were in the Kiehl’s Pharmacy on Third Avenue, one of the oldest shops in Manhattan, moving methodically down the aisles rubbing tester creams and lotions into our skin. Desi at least was sniffing before she rubbed, while I was slathering on