The Next Best Thing. Kristan Higgins
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at my shoulder. “You’re right. Being a widow is so cool. No one to mess up my stuff, you know what I’m saying? And you know what else, Kyle? Let me tell you a secret. One day, back when he was still alive, my husband took the last cup of coffee, okay? Didn’t even tell me. So I said to myself, ‘Lucy, do you really want to live like this?’ And I didn’t, so I killed him.” I flutter my eyelashes. “You want to grab dinner sometime?”
Parker and I don’t talk much on the way home. My last Yes turned out to be a firefighter, and though he was attractive, charming and polite, there was no way in hell I was going to marry a man who rushed into burning buildings with a rinky—dink little air pack strapped to his back. Parker took his card, though, and they have a date next week.
“You did good tonight, kid,” Parker says when we reach my place.
“And you did amazingly,” I say. “How many dates do you have for next week?”
“Just three,” she answers.
“Are you really looking for someone, or are you just keeping me company?” I ask.
“Oh, I guess I’d like to find someone. Theoretically. It’s different, though, having a kid. I already belong to someone, you know? It’s just that he’s four years old.”
I smile. “You’re so lucky, Parker.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I know. Now get out of my car, you.”
“Thanks for driving,” I say. “And thanks for taking me. Sorry you wasted your money.”
“It’s nothing,” she answers. “Talk to you tomorrow. And hey, Luce…” She turns to look at me, and as always, I’m struck by just how gorgeous she is.
“Yes?”
“Jimmy would be proud of you.”
There’s a sudden lump in my throat. “Thanks,” I say, my voice uneven. “Kiss Nicky for me.”
“Will do.”
In the elevator, rather than pressing 4, I hit 5. Ethan’s floor. Maybe he wants a little company. Maybe—I wince, feeling like a person on a diet standing in front of the freezer, knowing she’s about to eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s—maybe Ethan wouldn’t mind a friendly little tumble. One that means nothing…just a little nooky, a quick shag. Or a longer shag, maybe.
I knock at his door. If he’s home, he’s awake…it’s only ten, and Ethan never goes to bed before 1:00 a.m. Or he didn’t use to, anyway. Whatever the case, there’s no answer. Feeling more deflated than I should, I go back down to my apartment, where Fat Mikey winds himself around my ankles in his traditional attempt to cause my death by tripping me. I pick him up, remind him that he loves me and I live to serve him, and kiss his large head.
Though I know I shouldn’t, I find myself sitting in front of the TV, watching my wedding video once again, Fat Mikey’s comforting bulk at my side. After attempting to find a date tonight, I just need to see Jimmy’s face, see him in motion. Our time together was so brief—so many memories that might’ve been were taken from me the night he died. We have no first anniversary, no birth of our children.
I hit Mute and watch the video in silence, undistracted by the sounds of the music, the laughter, other people talking. Instead I just drink in the sight of Jimmy, frozen in time at age twenty—seven, crazy in love with me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE FIRST TIME ETHAN AND I SLEPT together was, um, well…it was memorable.
What brings a woman to sleep with her brother—in—law, after all? I’m going to have to go with honesty here. Sheer horniness.
See, it had been three and a half years. That’s forty—two months of being alone. Things were better, they were. The darkest days were over, when I’d wake up and realize something was wrong but didn’t know what…the desperate, terrifying realization that I’d never see Jimmy again, ever…somehow I’d gotten through that yawning, awful black time. Sure, I still had a few bad moments here and there. But I was trying.
Growing up around widows, I’d seen my mother and aunts embrace widowhood as a defining trait. Before all else, they were Widows, and God help me, I didn’t want that to happen. I wanted to stay myself, the happy, optimistic person Jimmy had loved…not someone who waved the flag of widowhood wherever she went. Granted, I often felt that the best part of me died with Jimmy, but I tried to radiate the idea that yes, it was awful, but I’d be really okay someday. To try to keep positive, I did a little yoga, taught my pastry class, since baking soothed me even though I couldn’t choke down the results, and listened to Bob Marley a lot. A line from “No Woman, No Cry” would run through my head whenever I felt that backward pull toward blackness. Everything’s gonna be all right. Everything’s gonna be all right. Everything’s gonna be all right. Everything’s gonna be all right. I was managing. Everything would be all right, I was determined it would.
And then came my twenty—eighth birthday. And everything was not all right.
Because on that day, suddenly, I was older than my husband ever would be.
As my birthday dawned, I could feel myself sinking into the black hole that had been so hard to crawl out of. I was twenty—eight. Jimmy would never be. I was twenty—eight, widowed, childless, chubbier, paler. My life had been so wonderful with Jimmy and now—I couldn’t avoid the fact today—my life sucked. I was baking bread instead of desserts. I wasn’t featured on the cover of Bon Appetit or a guest judge on Top Chef. I was nobody in the world of pastry chefs, no one’s wife, no one’s mother, and none of that was likely to change anytime soon. While I was surviving, I was no fun. You get the idea.
When the Black Widows came into the bakery that morning, I told them I was leaving early. I’d never taken a day off from Bunny’s, as the last thing I wanted was too much time on my hands. Iris peered anxiously in my mouth, looking for signs of “the Lou Gehrig’s.” Rose offered me one of her “pep pills,” which I declined (not sure if they were Tic Tacs, cold medicine or Prozac). My own mother said nothing, probably knowing just why I wanted to hide.
The aunts clucked around me like worried hens. After much discussion, they accepted my assurance that the chances of me having ALS were probably not as high as feared. I told them I was fine…maybe I just needed a makeover, was just feeling blue. My mother gave me a rare hug, said we’d celebrate my birthday tomorrow, and Iris offered me her lipstick (Coral Glow, which she’d been wearing for fifty years and which bore more resemblance to a nuclear spill than anything that God made). I put a little on—it couldn’t hurt, right?—and walked home.
My mood grew heavier as I skirted the park. In there was Jimmy’s grave, incontrovertible evidence that he was not alive. When he first died, I went through all that magical thinking that widows do, coming up with possible scenarios to prove Jimmy’s death was a mistake. That he had stopped, for example, at a motel. But someone had stolen his car, and it was that poor thief who died, not Jimmy. (The fact that I’d seen Jimmy’s body at the funeral home was something I’d have been happy to overlook, should he come walking through the doors.) Or that Jimmy worked for the CIA and his death was staged, and any day I’d be getting a call from Zimbabwe or Moscow. Or if I just was brave and strong enough, that Jimmy would come back and tell me I’d done a great job and that he’d be alive again, sorry for the inconvenience, and I could just relax and go back to that sweet, happy life we’d once had.
Now, I forced myself to look in the general direction of my husband’s grave, and a little more magical thinking occurred. “Are you really going to let me be older than you?” I asked, aloud. “Jimmy? You sure about this?”
The challenge went unanswered. With a lump in my throat, I continued on my way.
When I got home, my apartment was still dark, as I hadn’t pulled up the shades. I decided to keep them down, too glum for sun. Then I tripped over Fat Mikey