Free Good In Bed by Jennifer Weiner Page A

here, “have you done the whole wedding thing before?”
    Sandy shook her head. “Not like this. My first time I eloped. That was when I found out I was pregnant with Trevor. Justice of the peace over in Bald Eagle,” she said. “I wore my prom dress to that one.”
    “Oh,” said I.
    “Second time,” she continued, “there never was a wedding at all. That was Dylan’s daddy, who I guess you could call my common-law husband. We were together seven years.”
    “Dylan, that’s me!” piped up a little voice from underneath the table. A small, sleek blond head peeked out. “My daddy’s in the army.”
    “That’s right, honey,” said Sandy, absently tousling Dylan’s hair with one hand. She raised her eyebrows significantly toward me, shook her head, and whispered, “J-a-i-l.”
    “Oh,” I said again.
    “For stealing cars,” she whispered. “Not anything, you know, too bad. I actually met Bryan, my fiancé, when I went visiting Dylan’s dad,” she said.
    “So Bryan’s…” I was just starting to learn how the long pause could sometimes be a reporter’s best friend.
    “Going to be paroled tomorrow,” Sandy said. “He was in for fraud.”
    Which, I guessed from the pride in her voice, was a step up even from grand theft auto.
    “So you met him in prison?”
    “We were actually corresponding for some time before then,” Sandy said. “He put an ad in the classified section… here, I saved it!” She hopped up, causing our soda glasses to rattle, and came up with a laminated piece of paper no bigger than a postage stamp. “Christian gentleman, tall, athletic build, Leo, seeks sensitive pen-pal for letters and maybe more,” it read.
    “He got twelve responses,” Sandy said, beaming. “He said he liked my letter the best.”
    “What did you tell him?”
    “I was real honest,” she said. “I explained my situation. How I was a single mother. How I wanted a role model for my boys.”
    “And you think…”
    “He’ll be a good daddy,” she said. She sat down again, staring into her glass like it contained the mysteries of the ages instead of flat generic cola. “I believe in love,” she said, her voice strong and clear.
    “Did your parents…” I began. She waved one hand in the air, as if to shoo away the very idea.
    “My father left when I was four, I think,” she said. “Then it was just my mom and one boyfriend after another. Daddy Rick, Daddy Sam, Daddy Aaron. I swore it wasn’t gonna go that way for me. And it’s not,” she said. “I think… I know… that this time I got it right.”
    “Mom?” Dylan was back, his lips dyed Kool-Aid red, holding his brother’s hand. Where Dylan was small and fine-boned and blond, this boy— Trevor, I guessed— was darker and sturdier, with a thoughtful look on his face.
    Sandy stood up and shot me a tentative smile. “You wait right here,” she said. “Boys, you come with me. Let’s show the reporter lady momma’s pretty dress!”
    After all of that— the prison, the husbands, the Christian classified ad— I was prepared for something dreadful, some off-the-rack horror show of a dress. The Bridal Barn specialized in those.
    But Sandy’s dress was beautiful. Tightly fitted on top, a fairytale princess boned bodice spangled with snowflake-sized crystals that caught the light, a deeply scooped neckline that showed off the creamy skin of her chest, swelling into a wave of tulle that swished around her feet. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes sparkled. She looked like Cinderella’s fairy godmother, like Glinda the good witch. Trevor held her hand solemnly as she made her way into the kitchen, humming “Here Comes the Bride.” Dylan had appropriated her veil and popped it on his own head.
    Sandy stood under the kitchen light and twirled. The edge of her skirt whispered along the floor. Dylan laughed and clapped his hands, and Trevor stared up at his mother, how her bare arms and shoulders rose out of the dress, how her hair