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Then I put the sopping towels in the washer while Craig set up an old fan in the hallway outside the bathroom door.

“Thanks,” I said when he came into the kitchen, holding his shoes in one hand.

“No problem,” he said.

The legs of his jeans had both come unrolled. They’d soaked up the water like a wick, and they were wet all the way up to his knees. I looked at them, then nodded at the dryer.

“Do you want to put those in there?”

“So I don’t catch my death of cold?” Craig’s mother always worried about everybody catching their death of cold, and it used to be one of our favorite lines after leaving her house.

We stared at each other. “Boyohboy,” I said. “You really messed things up.”

“We both did. You barely talked to me that whole last year.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess. I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

I just kept thinking,
Is this all there is?
” Craig shook his head. “I couldn’t stop thinking about how every day when I woke up I was older than the day before. I still hate that.”

“Oh,” I said. “Poor baby.”

I don’t know exactly how it happened, but suddenly our arms were around each other, and then we were kissing. It felt both wrong and right at the same time, which actually might have worked as kind of a definition of our entire marriage.

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I heard the sound of one of his shoes hitting the ground behind me. He started yanking at my clothes. I started yanking at his. It was like a throwback to the frantic excitement of when we were first dating, but it was also kind of angry, maybe even a little bit competitive, too. Whatever it was, it was hot, and by the time I heard the sound of the other shoe dropping, we were already halfway to the bedroom.

• 19 •

HAVING SEX WITH MY EX-HUSBAND TURNED OUT TO

be a lot like eating a hot fudge sundae. I really, really wanted it. The anticipation leading up to it was so heavenly it was almost painful. The first bite or two even lived up to my expectations.

Then, just as quickly, I was so over it. But what do you do?

You’ve already bought it. And here the similarity fades, since it’s a lot easier to dump an uneaten hot fudge sundae in the trash than it is to kick your ex-husband out of bed prematurely.

So, basically, I did what every red-blooded woman in America, or anywhere else for that matter, would do. I hung in there long enough to have a seriously overdue orgasm, and then I faked the rest of it. I made the right sounds and mo-tions, but it was all I could do not to turn Craig’s thrusts into a counting game, some twisted version of “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”

I’d once had a boyfriend back in my college days who swore he could do astral projection. I thought I might be doing it now. My body was on my bed screwing my former husband, and the rest of me was floating somewhere up by the ceiling, looking down at us and thinking, “Uh-oh.” I’d forgotten what a big racket Craig made when he came, but at least he finally did. I resisted the urge to ricochet out of bed and head for the hills. I shut one eye and kissed him beneath his ear.

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He ran a finger between my breasts and down to circle my navel. “That was great,” he whispered. “How was it for you?” I’d completely forgotten until just this second. I kicked the covers off. “Precious,” I said. “Cannoli.” Craig smiled. “That’s new,” he said.

I jumped out of bed and started looking for my clothes.

“Hey,” Craig said. “You look great. Have you been working out?”

I found my T-shirt. It was almost dark out, so I decided to just throw it on without taking the time to hunt for my bra, which was probably hanging from a chandelier somewhere.

A cell phone rang down by my feet, and I picked it up.

“Don’t,” Craig said.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello?” Sophia’s voice said.

I tossed the phone at Craig. “It’s your girlfriend,” I said.

CANNOLI HAD HER NOSE PRESSED
against the glass door of the salon. Her tail started wagging a mile a minute when she saw me.

I opened the door and scooped her up into a hug. “I can’t believe I forgot about you,” I said. When Myles was first born, Tulia left him at the pediatrician’s office one day. She put him down on the floor in his baby seat to write a check, then grabbed Mack and Maggie by the hands and headed out to the car. When she got home, there was a message from the receptionist telling her to count her kids again. Everybody had laughed for weeks about what a flake she was, but I was horrified.

Now I knew how easily it could happen. For the first time I wondered if I really could offer this sweet little dog a better 142

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home than the Silly Siren bride could. I put on a jacket and grabbed Cannoli’s new jeweled leash and hooked it onto her collar. “Come on,” I said. “I think we could both use a walk.” I held the leash in one hand and fished in my jacket pocket for something to soothe my ravaged lips. I pulled out a tube of Estee Lauder Hot Kiss. “Not really,” I said out loud, but I smeared it on anyway.

We were way down the street when Craig drove up beside us. He rolled down the window of his stupid leased Lexus. His hair was wet, so he must have taken a quick shower and used a washcloth to dry himself, since all the towels were in the washer.

He gave me a worried look. “Any ideas?” he actually asked.

“Yeah,” I said. Cannoli and I picked up our pace, and I gave my ex-husband the finger over my shoulder. I couldn’t believe he was actually asking me for advice. I couldn’t believe I’d slept with him.

Cannoli and I walked for a long time. I peeked into people’s houses the way I always did when I was outside at night. Most of them were watching TV. Nobody looked all that happy.

Somebody had a butterscotch leather couch I really wanted.

I wondered what would happen if I just knocked on the door and asked where they’d bought it. Maybe a guy would answer the door, a guy who’d just slept with his ex-wife even though she was dating his brother, and he wouldn’t want to talk about it with just anyone. We’d start with the couch, and the conversation would move on from there. Before we knew it, we’d realize that sleeping with our ex-spouses was just the first of many fascinating things we had in common.

I stopped on the sidewalk outside the house, still checking out the couch, until a woman walked into the room. She looked like she was yelling something over her shoulder.

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I picked up Cannoli and started walking again. I buried my nose in what was left of her fur. It was nice and soft, and I was glad I’d taken the time to use some L’Oreal Vive Smooth Intense Anti-Frizz Mask, even though Sean Ryan had balked at the extra five minutes.

Eventually, we turned and headed home. It wasn’t until we rounded the corner that I saw the flock of wild turkeys in the salon parking lot. Flock might have been an exaggeration, but I’ve never actually known how many it takes to make a flock.

There were four of them, and they were walking right by the door to my apartment, as if they’d just come out of the salon after getting their feathers ruffled or something.

We slowed down and gave them time to pass. Cannoli didn’t seem particularly worried about them, and the turkeys didn’t even glance our way. They just plodded along, taking their time, heading toward a little break in the brush on the edge of the parking lot.

Wild turkeys weren’t an unusual sight around Marshbury, especially as the town got more and more built up, and they had fewer places to hide. But still, it seemed like seeing them on this particular night, at this particular juncture in my life, had to be a sign.

Did it mean my former husband was a turkey? Or that I’d better get my life together fast, because Thanksgiving was practically right around the corner? Or maybe wild turkey was code for Wild Turkey, and it meant that I needed a drink.

“Let’s go with three,” I said to Cannoli as soon as the last of the turkeys had disappeared into the thicket.

Of course, sadly, I didn’t really have any Wild Turkey in my apartment. The best I could come up with were two long-forgotten bottles of Sam Adams Boston Lager at the back of my refrigerator, tucked behind a molding cantaloupe I’d bought 144

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back when I was feeling healthy. I opened a bottle with one of my kitchen drawer pulls, a trick I’d learned as a Girl Scout, since Craig seemed to have absconded with the bottle opener at some point. I freshened Cannoli’s water bowl and put the towels in the dryer.

I held up my beer bottle. “Cheers,” I said.

Cannoli drank daintily, but I guzzled. What the hell was I thinking, sleeping with Craig? Was I trying to get back at Sophia? I didn’t really think so, but it wasn’t exactly a secret that I was much better at denial than introspection, so it was hard to tell. I thought. Then I drank some more. Then I got up and grabbed the second bottle. Then I drank and thought some more.

If I hadn’t almost kissed Sean Ryan, I didn’t think I would have slept with Craig. This might not make sense to a well-adjusted person, but what well-adjusted person sleeps with her ex-husband when he’s sleeping with her half sister? I was pretty sure it was true though. Somehow my wires and hormones got crossed, and I got turned on and forgot to get turned off again. So maybe it was essentially like outsourcing for sex. Or maybe it just seemed less scary to sleep with Craig than to have to start all over again with a new person.

I turned off the fan in the hallway outside my bathroom, brushed my teeth, peed for about ten minutes, and remembered why I never drank beer. Forget the antioxidants, Sean Ryan needed to come up with a beer that didn’t make you have to pee like a racehorse.

I grabbed a towel out of the dryer and jumped in the shower. I slathered DHC Purifying Charcoal Shower Gel all over me. They advertised it as being able to absorb thousands of times its own weight in tarnishing toxins and beauty-clogging impurities. I hoped they weren’t exaggerating.

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I went into the bedroom, changed the sheets, and carried them into the kitchen. I put the sheets that smelled like Craig in the washer with extra bleach. Then I went back to the living room to call Sean Ryan.

“Hi,” his voice said. “You’ve reached me, but I’m either off hang gliding in Argentina, or I’m not answering the phone. So leave a message.”

“Hi,” I said. “This is Bella. I’m just calling to say I’m sorry.

That was weird back there in the salon, wasn’t it? That guy was my ex-husband, in case you were wondering. Anyway, call me.

And nice tip, by the way. Only kidding. Don’t worry, I’ll give it back. Okay. Bye.”

I hung up the phone. I rummaged around the apartment until I found the invitation for Andrew’s wedding. Saturday at 5 p.m. at some church, followed by a reception at the Margaret Mitchell House. The invitation was gorgeous, with beautiful copper foil insets. I turned it over and saw that it was made by an Atlanta company called Jack and Gretel. Ah, to believe in fairy tales again.

I picked up the phone and called Sean Ryan again. I waited out his message. “Hi again,” I said in a voice that sounded way too chirpy to my ears. “Just wanted to let you know that my nephew’s wedding is at five. So, how about I take half the table, all right, the left side, and then we’ll have plenty of time to get to the wedding. So, call me and let me know when your flight is and where you’re staying and how you want to meet up and all that. Okay, well, bye again.” Cannoli hopped up on my lap. We stared at the phone for a lot longer than we should have. Finally, I called Lizzie. “Hey,” she said. “What are you doing up so late?” I looked at the clock on the fireplace. “It’s nine,” I said.

“I’m not
that
old.”

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She laughed noncommittally. “Did you talk to my dad yet?”

“A little bit,” I said. “He doesn’t sound completely against the culinary arts idea, but don’t quote me on that, whatever you do. Maybe you should just pursue it on the side for a while.

I mean, can you start a cooking club or something?”

“I already signed up to work on a cooking show for the cam-pus TV station. I figure it’ll give me something to put on my résumé.”