Free The Actor and the Housewife by Shannon Hale Page A

that one time when she’d left the church restroom with the back of her skirt tucked into her pantyhose.
    “Thanks again for your help with the contract,” she said as they passed a marbleized Philo T. Farnsworth, inventor of television. “Nothing’s happening with the film, of course, but Annette gave me five thousand dollars for the option. After taxes and all, it’ll be enough to cover the baby delivery bills, and just in time.”
    “Oh, I see, you’re still expecting. For some reason, I thought you said you’d already had your baby.”
    Becky stopped so fast, her low heels squeaked, and she glared at Felix until he actually stepped back and adjusted his tie.
    “Were you raised in a barn? Don’t you know that you never, ever assume a woman is pregnant? Not even if she’s nine months and in labor—Not ever, never, never!”
    He winced. “I . . . er . . .”
    “I just had the baby six weeks ago, and it was my fourth pregnancy and it takes time for a body to readjust, and I haven’t had more than two hours of sleep in a row since December, and I’m normally a very nice person but I would like to hit you.”
    “Then you probably should. On the jaw.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “Quite.” He stuck out his jaw. “I’m ready. Bombs away.”
    She readied her fist.
    “No, no,” he said, “get your thumb out of your fist, and you need to pull back more. That’s it. Get a good range and extend your arm all the way.”
    She pulled back, pictured hitting her target like Mike had taught her to do before driving a golf ball, then swung. She struck him dead in the jaw. He wheeled around, clutching his face.
    “Ow! Oh!”
    “Really?” she said, rubbing her knuckles. “Did I really hurt you? You’re just faking it to make me feel good.”
    “No, not faking.” He was still hunched over. “That was a proper punch.”
    She clapped her hands. “Wow! I’ve never hurt someone before, especially not someone who deserved it so much. Can we do it again?”
    “I’m certain I’ll do something else to deserve it before long. In the meantime, mind if we step outside and let the night air cool down the swelling?”
    He offered his arm again and she took it. His left elbow was becoming familiar. Mike and Celeste were still dancing, Mike’s back to her. Becky waved, indicating that they should join them outside, and Celeste nodded, holding up one finger.
    No one else was out in the chilly February air. Felix gave her his tuxedo jacket. The sleeves reached her palms, and she thought of how Mike’s coats engulfed her fingertips.
    She reached to touch Felix’s red cheek, then stopped herself. “Is it sore? Does it hurt to the touch?”
    “It does, actually.”
    She giggled. “That was so great!”
    “I’m so happy to have obliged.”
    “You did offer.”
    “I did. And I deserved it.”
    The cold hadn’t touched Becky yet. She folded her arms and leaned against the stone balustrade, looking over the sporadic lights of Salt Lake City, up to the black outline of the mountains against a sparkly, starry sky. Beside her Felix was quiet too. She figured he was bored and was waiting for Mike and Celeste before restarting the conversation. That was fine. At the moment, she couldn’t drum up enough energy to make herself be entertaining. She sensed his eyes on her, probably gazing at the Fred Meyer surgical-steel-post earring with genuine pink enamel fl owers in her right ear. That little beauty should charm him more than anything she could say.
    She felt deeply content to be out of the house and in a world full of air and a moon and Felix Callahan too, even if he was contemplating the abomination that was her cheap earring. The air between them was becoming warm, like the pockets of tepid water her toes found when swimming in a cool lake. And she felt—she actually felt a little tug on her chest. On her heart. As if her heart were tied to his by a string. No doubt a hallucination caused by new-mommy dementia, she