If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now
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Authors: Claire Lazebnik
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #FIC000000
“Winning… moments of real depth combine with witty dialogue as LaZebnik deftly spins each turn convincingly to avoid easy
answers.”—
Publishers Weekly
“This sparkling novel about two sisters is both witty and stylish. You won’t be able to resist LaZebnik’s charming take on
modern relationships. Read it!”
—Holly Peterson,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Manny
“A funny and endearing novel that truly captures the devotion and rivalry between sisters… whether they relate to the smart
one or the pretty one (or both), readers will find this book irresistible.”—
Booklist
“Another alluring tale of two seemingly different sisters… Recommended for fans of intelligent chick lit.”—
Library Journal
“A deliciously intimate portrait of sisters.”
—W. Bruce Cameron, author of
8 Simple Rules for Marrying My Daughter
“A fun novel… perfect for reading on a beach.”
“Claire LaZebnik explores the sister bond with warmth, wit, and honesty. I loved this novel.”
—Jill Smolinski, author of
The Next Thing on My List
“Sisters everywhere will recognize themselves in
The Smart One and the Pretty One
. Claire LaZebnik has written a touching take on love, longing, and the ties that bind.”
—Heather and Rose MacDowell, authors of
Turning Tables
“Claire LaZebnik has written a wonderfully smart and funny novel about the complexity of love and friendship between sisters.
Filled with real warmth and astute observations, it made me wish I had a sister of my own. You’ll enjoy every heartfelt page.”
—Leslie Schnur, author of
Late Night Talking
and
The Dog Walker
“At turns hilarious, at times heartbreaking, and so, so honest about life, love, and friendship. I loved it.”
—Melissa Senate
“Charming… smart, engaging characters, each of whom is complicated and real enough to be worth an entire book on her own.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“LaZebnik juggles periods of personal crisis while maintaining her characters’ complex individuality. Social knitters, especially,
will relate to the bond that strengthens over the click-clack of the girls’ needles.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[A] funny and heart-tugging story about three twenty-something Los Angeles women who drink, cry, and, of course, knit together
whenever they can.”
—Arizona Republic
“The characters and problems here are more realistically portrayed than in many chick-lit books, which makes this a nice combination
of humor and heartache. Recommended.”
—Library Journal
“Fantastic… has great, believable, and well-written characters that bring the story to life. This is a story that no one will
want to miss!”
—TCM Reviews
“A hilarious tale, sometimes sweet and touching and sometimes out-loud laughable. But mainly it is honest and hits home about
life, love, and dating.”
“
Knitting Under the Influence
is about three young women living in L.A. who meet every week to knit, share secrets, and exchange insights about the challenges
of their lives. It’s ultimately about how friendship helps us forge a sensible path through our frazzled lives.”
—Palisadian-Post
(CA)
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Claire LaZebnik
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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5 Spot is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing.
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First eBook Edition: September 2010
ISBN: 978-0-446-57440-2
Praise for Claire LaZebnik’s Previous Novels
For Julie, Alice, Nell, and Ted, with love and gratitude
T
he heat wave that had tortured us for most of September finally broke and Tuesday morning was cool and overcast, so I volunteered
to take Eleanor Roosevelt around the block. My mother thanked me a little too enthusiastically, effectively conveying the
message that her expectations of me were so low that she was bowled over by a simple offer to walk the dog.
I was trying to get Eleanor Roosevelt’s leash on, dodging her happy dancing legs and scolding her to hold still, when my cell
phone rang. I dropped the leash so I could get the phone out of my jeans pocket. Eleanor Roosevelt stopped wiggling and looked
at me, confused. This wasn’t how the game went.
“Hey, Rickie,” said a male voice on the other end.
I breathed in sharply. “Ryan?”
“Yeah.”
I gave a delighted bounce and Eleanor Roosevelt jumped and barked with sympathetic excitement. “Are you back in town?”
“Yep. Just got back a couple of days ago.”
“It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Same here. Sorry I didn’t keep up with your e-mails the last month or so.”
“No worries,” I said. “Have you seen Gabriel yet?”
“Last night. We talked for a long time. I still can’t believe it—I leave home for six months, and they decide to get divorced?
What’s up with that?”
“It’s a mess.”
“Want to come over and discuss it with me?”
Just nine words, but they were enough to make every inch of me tighten with desire. I kept my voice casual, though. “Right
now?”
“I’m not doing anything. You?”
“Nah, not really.” I glanced down at the dog and whispered, “Sorry, girl.” Into the phone I added, “Half an hour good?”
“Perfect. See you.”
I gently nudged Eleanor Roosevelt away from my leg and hung the leash back up on its nail in the coat closet. The dog whined
and followed me as I headed toward the kitchen, where my mother was working on her laptop.
“I thought you were taking her on a walk,” she said, looking up.
“I just got a call. I’m going to meet a friend for lunch.”
“Can’t you walk the dog first?”
“I said I’d be right over.”
“You’re breaking her heart.”
I looked back at the yellow Lab. She ducked her head down but kept her eyes pinned on my face hopefully. “She’s just a dog,”
I said, even though I felt bad about disappointing her. “She’ll be fine.”
“Just run her around the block—”
“I don’t have time. I promise I’ll walk her later.”
My mother rose from the table, heaving a dramatic sigh. “Come on,” she said to Eleanor Roosevelt, who immediately raised her
head, her eyes gleaming with sudden joy. “I’ll take you.” Eleanor Roosevelt gave a leap of pure happiness and
trotted ahead of Mom out of the kitchen, toward her leash and the walk she loved so much.
I went the other way, toward the garage, and got in my car. I drove past them on the street. Eleanor Roosevelt was hauling
my mother along, practically pulling her arm out of its socket in her delight at being out and about.
I didn’t slow down and Mom didn’t wave.
Ryan worked on movie shoots as a production assistant. He was always traveling to different countries. Sometimes I’d be at
a movie and see his name in the credits, and I’d feel a funny burst of pride even though he hadn’t told me anything about
it and his name was always buried way at the end.
We met when his brother, Gabriel, and my half sister, Melanie, first got engaged. I was sixteen, moody and insecure and far
more excited about being Mel’s maid of honor than I would ever admit to anyone. Ryan was five years older, just finishing
up college, and, as Gabriel’s brother and best man, my official partner in all ceremonies and table seatings. He was tall,
cute, mildly roguish, and so far out of my league that I immediately developed a major crush on him and proceeded to spend
way too much time trying to figure out what relation Mel and Gabriel’s children would be to ours when Ryan and I got married
in turn.
Ryan winked at me and squeezed my arm when we walked back down the aisle together after the ceremony. Feeling grown-up in
my strapless silver bridesmaid dress, I thought that meant he was finally seeing me as a woman, until I took a sip of champagne
in front of him a little while later and he said, “Don’t be in such a rush to grow up. Being a kid is more fun.” I thought
he was just being patronizing, but over time I came to realize he meant it—the guy was in no rush to become
an adult. Me, I was in too much of a rush, although how much too much only became evident about three years later.
Anyway, when Ryan left his seat at our table to flirt with Melanie’s former college roommate who was twenty-four and gorgeous—or
at least so blond and tall that she passed for gorgeous—I surrendered the fantasy that I could ever be anything other than
Mel’s little sister to him.
Our paths continued to cross through subsequent years of family holidays and celebrations, but Ryan was never more than civil
and distantly friendly until a couple of Thanksgivings ago at our house, when my mom seated us together and something just
clicked. The timing was finally right, I guess. He was a footloose twenty-eight-year-old and I was a twenty-three-year-old
with responsibilities. Made us almost the same age.
We talked to each other the entire evening, mostly about our families. We both knew what it was like to be the younger and
less successful sibling—maybe that was what bonded us, made us similarly sarcastic, similarly vulnerable, similarly determined
not to let anyone see through the sarcasm to that vulnerability.
Ryan was actually better-looking than Gabriel. His features were smaller and more even and he was a lot thinner, but he lacked
Gabriel’s charm and exuberance. Gabriel was a chubby teddy bear of a guy whose overgrown beard and mustache made him look
like he’d taken refuge in a cave for a number of years, but wherever he went he took up a lot of space in a
good
way. He made every room feel a little warmer and homier and more welcoming because he was in it, whereas Ryan hovered around
the edges wherever he was, always an observer, always a visitor, never at home. It was no surprise he took jobs that let him
travel all over the world: he liked being rootless and independent.
We surreptitiously exchanged phone numbers that Thanksgiving night. A few days later he called me, and we met at a restaurant
for dinner and ended up back at his place. From then on, whenever he was in town, he got in touch with me.
Neither of us told our families. They might have thought it was meaningful when it wasn’t.
I would be the first to admit that I hadn’t ever completely gotten over my crush on Ryan, but the more I got to know him,
the more I realized he wasn’t a guy you could pin a lot of hopes on. The second you tried to grab on to him in any way, he
turned slippery and slid right through your fingers. The reason he liked me was because I was smart enough to leave him alone
most of the time.
It was harder than it looked.
He greeted me now at the front door of his small apartment building, in answer to my intercom call. “The lock’s broken,” he
explained as he gave me a brusque kiss on the cheek. “I can’t buzz people in anymore. Have to come down.”
“Can’t you get them to fix it?”
He shrugged. “I’m only in town until the next job. Someone who lives here all the time can deal with it. Come on.”