Ex and the Single Girl (9 page)

I leaned over and put my face between my knees. “
N
o.”

“
Oh, Portia. I
’
ve missed you, baby.”
She took another sip of her tea. “
I don
’
t know if it
’
s you or the tea, but I
’
m feeling so much better.”

“
Well, I live to amuse you,”
I said.

Beauji grinned. “
Welcome home, darlin
’
. Welcome home.”

“
So,”
Mags said, le
aning her chin on one hand, her bangle bracelets dangling precariously over the glob of mashed potatoes on her plate, “
how are you feeling today, Portia?”

I stabbed at the roast, avoiding her gaze. “
Fine. And you?”

“
I
’
m fine. I was just wondering how
you
were doing.”

I put my fork down and glanced from Miz to Miz, all watching me over the steaming spread of hearty Southern food. I smiled.

“
I
’
m great, thank you.”
I took a sip of my iced tea. They were still staring. “
What? What do you want me to say?”

“
We
’
re just curious, baby,”
Mags said. “
A few details won
’
t kill you.”

I raised one eyebrow. “
They might kill
you.”

She leaned forward, her eyes gleeful. “
Now that
’
s more like it.”

“
I
’
ll bet he was a wonderful kisser, wasn
’
t he, Portia?”
Vera asked, refilling
my iced tea. “
I hear that men from England do this fabulous twisty thing with their tongues.”

I stared at Vera. “
Where
’
d you hear that?”

She shrugged. “
We stock
Cosmopolitan
magazine.”

“
Well, I think a girl who
’
d been kissed all twisty last night would be
smiling more today, don
’
t you, Vera?”
Mags said. She and Vera erupted into giggles. I shook my head and looked at Bev, who raised one eyebrow and took a sip of iced tea.

“
What exactly did you girls think?”
I asked. “
That one night with Ian Beckett was goin
g to turn me into a giggly little teenager? It doesn
’
t work that way.”

“
Sometimes it does,”
Vera said with a grin. “
Why, there was this one time, when I was twenty-two...”

Mags pointed her fork at Vera. “
Marcus the banjo player!”

“
Yes!”
Vera said, her eyes
drifting heavenward at the memory. “
He did this one thing with his toes
—”

I held up my hand. “
Ah-ah-ah-ah. No. Please. Vera. I love you, but please. No.”

Mags and Vera giggled again. Bev handed me the basket of warm rolls.

“
Surely you must feel a little d
ifferent,”
she said. “
Every man a woman sleeps with changes her a little, whether she wants to admit it or not.”

I took a roll and Bev withdrew the basket.

“
Not me,”
I said. “
I am unchanged. I was fine before our little dalliance, and I
’
m fine now. So y
’
al
l can stop with the Flyers and stop with the fixing and just hand me some of those potatoes.”

“
I don
’
t know, baby,”
Mags said. “
I think Bev is right. About the men changing you, a little bit at least. There was that man I met in Bermuda, Rory Munroe. I onl
y slept with him once, and I
’
ve walked a little different ever since.”

Vera and Mags descended once again into a fit of giggles. I tossed my fork down on my plate and looked at Bev.

“
Doesn
’
t that bother you? To hear your daughters talk like that?”

Bev shru
gged. “
Why should it? They
’
re just being
honest
I stared at her. She stared back.

She knew I
’
d faked the Flight.

I didn
’
t know how she knew, but she knew. I picked up my wineglass and hoped she
’
d keep it our little secret. Mags and Vera would have me Flyin
g with every unattached man in Truly before they
’
d admit defeat, and that
’
s a prospect that could get very, very scary very, very quickly.

“
So, are you going to see him again?”
Vera asked.

“
Of course not,”
Mags said before I had a chance to answer. “
What
’
s the point of Flying if you have to see him again?”

“
I don
’
t know,”
I said with a shrug, my eyes on the bit of roast I was sawing into. “
He
’
s a pretty big deal as authors go. I was thinking it might not be a bad idea to do a book signing or something.”

Ve
ra smiled and leaned forward. “
Really?”

I rolled my eyes. “
Yes, really, Vera. This hadn
’
t occurred to you? We own a bookstore, for crying out loud.”

“
I think it
’
s a wonderful idea,”
Vera said, practically glowing with satisfaction as she sat back and reach
ed for her iced tea. “
It
’
s a horrible idea,”
Bev said. “
He lives in London.”

I looked at them. “
What does that have to do with a book signing?”

Bev stabbed at her green beans. “
Why don
’
t you call up that nice Greg Feeney?”

I spoke to the ceiling. “
Because
Greg Feeney hasn
’
t written a book.”

“
Oh, Portia.”
Mags raised her glass in my direction to get my attention. “
I think you should go see Pearl McGee.”

I looked at her. “
For what?”

She grinned. “
Well, surely you know that ponytail has got to go.”

My hand fle
w to my ponytail. “
No. I don
’
t.”

“
I think if you cut it shoulder length, maybe added a little flip to it? Some highlights, maybe? It
’
d be real pretty. Not that you
’
re not pretty now, baby, but you know we all have to put our best foot forward.”

I stared at
her. She smiled back and patted my hand, standing up from the table. “
Who wants more sweet potatoes?”

My eyes flew open on the edge of a dream I couldn
’
t quite remember. I pulled on my glasses and looked at the clock. 2:34. I rolled onto my back and stare
d at the ceiling, wide awake. I knew myself well enough to know it was hopeless. The back- home insomnia had set in.

I sat up in my bed and looked around at all the items from my youth. The field hockey trophy I
’
d gotten during freshman year. The shelf wit
h all the copies of my favorite books from high school. William Goldman
’
s
The Princess Bride.
Tolkien
’
s
The Lord of the Rings. The Compleat Shakespeare.
A collection of Melville
’
s short stories, my favorite of which was “
Bartleby the Scrivener,”
about a cl
erk who got out of work simply by telling his boss “
I prefer not to”
whenever he was given a task. Obviously a man who
’
d never lived with a Miz Fallon.

I got up and ran my fingers along the worn spines of the books, smiling. I moved over to the dresser, to
uching the candles that had remained unlit since Ian had blown them out. I opened the wooden jewelry/music box that Vera had given me when I turned sixteen, and it creaked out a few strands of “
Sunshine on My Shoulder”
before petering out.

I walked over to
my closet and opened it. I hadn
’
t unpacked my duffel bag, so all that was in there were my prom dresses, encased in dusty dry cleaning bags. I laughed and ran my hand over the rip I
’
d made in the mauve taffeta when Beauji and I got caught drinking beer i
n
the elementary school playground. That was probably the fastest I
’
d ever run in my life.

I looked up to the top shelf of my closet and my smile disappeared as I saw the faded red shoebox peeking over the shelf. I think originally it had held a pair of Mar
y Janes I
’
d had in the first grade, but since then, I
’
d been using it to store letters.

I reached up and pulled it down, walking over to the bed and settling in. For a moment I just stared at it, then finally forced myself to pluck off the top.

They were t
here, a series of fat envelopes stuffed with letters and pictures. The return addresses were written in my handwriting, which flowed from
the scratchy print of my child
hood to the fat cursiv
e of my teenage years. Miss Porti
a Fallon, 1232 Sweet Tree Lane, T
ruly, Georgia. The addressee was always one line: Lyle Jackson Tripplehorn.
I
’
d
never had an address to put under the name.

I pulled one out and opened it. A picture of me from the sixth grade fell on top of the pile. The writing was round and fat. I dotte
d my
I
s with tiny circles.

Dear Jack,

I turned twelve last week. I got a Walkman from Mags, a Billy Joel tape from Bev. Vera gave me a stuffed polar bear. She
’
s nice and everything, but she still thinks I
’
m a kid or something. I
’
m getting all A
’
s in school and I
’
m especially good in English and Social Studies. I hope you are doing well and maybe someday you will come see me. I
’
m a good kid, and I
’
m getting my braces off in three months.

Love,

Portia

I put the cover back on the box and stuck it b
ack on the top shelf, then got dressed and headed the six blocks toward the Printed Page.

“
Portia? Portia baby?”

I swatted lazily at the hand on my arm and opened my eyes. I looked up. Vera. I blinked, and shifted in the hideous orange chair. “
Hmmm. I must
have fallen asleep.”

“
We were worried about you, sweetie. I wish you had left us a note.”
Vera walked over to the coffee bar and put down the big platter of muffins she
’
d been carrying. “
Although we all figured you
’
d come here to read. You having trouble
sleeping again?”

I pushed myself up in the chair. “
Sorry. I didn
’
t mean for you to worry.”

“
Oh, don
’
t you think twice about it.”
She stepped around the bar and stood next to me, a small smile spreading over her face. “
Good reading?”

I looked down at the bo
ok in my arms, and the itty bitty booklight that was glowing all over the handsome face of Mr. Ian Beckett, otherwise known as Alistair Barnes. I turned off the itty bitty and tossed the book onto a side table.

“
He
’
s not bad,”
I said, getting up and stretc
hing. “
I really think we should have him come in for a book signing.”