Free Catch of the Day by Kristan Higgins

cuddling, and while Colonel is excellent at cuddling, he’s not exactly the same thing as a hubby. No, Colonel could lie in front of a warm, snapping fire as my husband and I sat cuddled up on the couch, reading, drinking coffee…
    My thoughts are cut off as a Hummer growls down the street, plowing through an enormous puddle. A sheet of muddy, icy water slaps down on me, drenching and punishing. “Hey!” I yelp. The vehicle slows at the library, pulling into a parking space near the front door.
    “Asshole,” I mutter. Fully intending to march down the street and tell them they’re idiots, I find myself slowing down. A woman, dressed in a cheerful red raincoat and matching hat, gets out of the passenger’s side. She opens the back door and out pop three blond children wearing colorful raincoats and brightly colored boots. The mother extends both hands, and the smaller children each take one, the oldest kid running ahead to hold the door for his mother and sisters. Even from a half a block away, I can hear their laughter.
    I guess I won’t tell them off. They’re not idiots, after all. As a matter of fact, they look like an ad for clean American living, aside from the earth-defiling vehicle they drive. They look like the kind of family I’d like to have someday. The woman seems like the kind of mother I’d want to be: laughing, well-dressed, unconsciously affectionate, automatically protective.
    Then the driver’s door opens and out gets Skip Parkinson.
    His presence is like a punch to the stomach, so silent and stunning that I actually bend over. I haven’t seen him since the day he dumped me, that awful day when he brought his fiancée back home.
    Skip glances down the block, and though I knew him immediately, it’s clear he doesn’t have that same instinct for me, despite having just soaked me through to the skin. My teeth begin to chatter, but I don’t move, just watch as Skip casually jogs into the library, still full of easy, athletic grace.
    Skip must be visiting his parents. No doubt the lovely, adorably dressed children got antsy being stuck inside, so Skip and Mrs. Skip took them to the library to get a book or a movie that would occupy them for the rest of the day. No doubt Skip and Mrs. Skip will return to the Parkinsons’ lovely home on Overlook Street and cuddle and read on the couch, the fire crackling, their legs entangled.
    That could have been me in the bright red raincoat, being driven through the cold rainy afternoon by Skip, my husband. Those cheerful, hand-holding kids might have been mine.
    Turning around, the cold rain slicing my face, I race home. It’s only three blocks, but I run as fast as I can, and by the time I get there, I’m gasping. I pound up the stairs, hoping that Mrs. K. doesn’t decide she wants a chat or a pedicure, and burst inside. The only sound is of my rasping breath and the rain drumming on the roof.
    Colonel hauls himself out of his dog bed and woofs softly. I kneel down and hug him, burying my face in his beautiful fur. “Oh, buddy, I’m so glad to see you,” I say. “I love you, Colonel.”
    When an eighty-five pound mammal licks your tears away, then tries to sit on your lap, it’s hard to feel sad. I give my dog some chicken breast to reward him for his love, then go to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. Bad idea. Bedraggled, wet hair sticks to my face, which is blotchy with cold. My mouth is grim.
    I slam my way out of the bathroom and go to the cupboard above the fridge—the rarely-used liquor cupboard—and take out the unopened Irish whiskey given to me by a nice old man who died about five years ago. I used to bring him dinner on Wednesday nights. Mr. Williams. Nice guy. I slosh about six ounces into a glass and raise it. “Here’s to you, Mr. Williams,” I say, drinking. Yuck. I grimace hugely, shudder, then take another swallow.
    Grabbing the phone, I call the bakery in Machias and order eighteen loaves of Italian bread, then