Too Good to Be True. Kristan Higgins
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My older sister sent me a dark look as she obeyed. She and Natalie had always scraped a bit… well, it would be more fair to say that Margaret scrapped, since Natalie was too sweet to really fight with anyone. As a result, I got along better with each than they did with each other—my reward for generally being taken for granted as the poor neglected middle child.
“I just sold a uterus for three thousand dollars!” Mom exclaimed, joining our little group.
“There is no limit to the bad taste of the American people,” Dad said, trailing sullenly behind her.
“Oh, shut it, Jim. Better yet, find your own damn bliss and leave mine alone.”
Dad rolled his eyes.
“Congratulations, Mom, that’s wonderful!” Natalie said.
“Thank you, dear. It’s nice that some people in this family can be supportive of my art.”
“Art,” Dad snorted.
“So, Grace,” Natalie said, “when can we meet Wyatt? What’s his last name again?”
“Dunn,” I answered easily. Margaret smiled and shook her head. “I will definitely get him up here soon.”
“What does he look like?” Nat asked, reaching for my hand in girlish conspiracy.
“Well, he’s pretty damn cute,” I chirruped. Good thing Julian and I had gone over this. “Tall, black hair…” I tried to recall Dr. Handsome from E.R., but I hadn’t watched since the episode where the wild dogs got loose in the hospital, mauling patients and staffers alike. “Um, dimples, you know? Great smile.” My face felt hot.
“She’s blushing,” Andrew commented fondly, and I felt an unexpectedly hot sliver of hatred pierce my heart. How dare he be thrilled that I’d met someone!
“He sounds wonderful,” my mother declared. “Not that a man is going to make you happy, of course. Look at your father and me. Sometimes a spouse tries to suffocate your dreams, Grace. Make sure he doesn’t do that. Like your father does to me.”
“Who do you think pays for all your glassblowing crap, huh?” Dad retorted. “Didn’t I convert the garage for your little hobby? Suffocate your dreams. I’d like to suffocate something, all right.”
“God, they’re adorable,” Margaret said. “Who wants to mingle?”
WHEN I FINALLY GOT HOME from my mother’s gynecological showcase, my surly neighbor was ripping shingles off his porch roof. He didn’t look up as I pulled into the driveway, even though I paused after getting out of my car. Not a nice man. Not friendly, anyway. Definitely nice to look at though, I thought, as I tore my eyes off his heavily muscled arms, unwillingly grateful that it was warm out, warm enough that Surly Neighbor Man had taken off his shirt. The sun gleamed on his sweaty back as he worked. Those upper arms of his were as thick as my thighs.
For a second, I pictured those big, burly, capable arms wrapped around me. Imagined Surly Neighbor Man pressing me against his house, his muscles hard and hot as he lifted me against him, his big manly hands—
Wow, you need to get laid, came the thought, unbidden. Clearly, the pulsating showerhead wasn’t doing the trick. Surly Neighbor Man, fortunately, had not noticed my lustful reverie. Hadn’t noticed me at all, in fact.
I went into the house, let Angus into my fenced-in backyard to pee and dig and roll. The scream of a power saw ripped through the air. With a tight sigh, I clicked on the computer to finally follow Julian’s advice. Match.com, eCommitment, eHarmony, yes, yes, yes. Time to find a man. A good man. A decent, hardworking, morally upright, good- looking guy who freakin’ adored me. Here I come, mister. Just you wait.
After describing my wares online, I took a look at a few profiles. Guy #1—no. Too pretty. Guy #2—no. His hobbies were NASCAR and ultimate fight clubs. Guy #3—no. Too weird-looking, let’s be honest. Acknowledging that perhaps my mood wasn’t right for this, I corrected World War II quizzes until it was dark, stopping only to eat some of the Chinese food Julian had brought over on Thursday, then going right back to correcting, circling grammatical errors and asking for more detail in the answers. It was a common Manning complaint that Ms. Emerson was a tough grader, but hey. Kids who got an A in my classes earned it.
When I was done, I sat back and stretched. On the kitchen wall, my Fritz the Cat clock ticked loudly, tail swishing to keep the time. It was only eight o’clock, and the night stretched out in front of me. I could call Julian… no. Apparently, my best friend thought we were codependent, and while that happened to be completely true, it stung a little nonetheless. Nothing wrong with codependence, was there? Well. He e-mailed me, at least, a nice chatty note about the four men who’d been interested in his profile online, and the resultant stomach cramps he’d suffered. Poor little coward. I typed in an answer, assured him that I, too, was now available for viewing online and told him I’d see him at Golden Meadows for Dancin’ with the Oldies.
With a sigh, I got up. Tomorrow was a school day. Maybe I’d wear one of my new outfits. Angus trotting at my heels, I clumped upstairs to reacquaint myself with my new clothes. In fact, I thought as I surveyed my closet, it was time to purge. Yes. One had to ask oneself when vintage became simply old. I grabbed a trash bag and started yanking. Goodbye to the sweaters with the holes in the armpits, the chiffon skirt with the burn in the back, the jeans that fit in 2002. Angus gnawed companionably on an old vinyl boot (what was I thinking?), and I let him have it.
Last week, I saw a show on this woman who was born without legs. She was a mechanic… actually, not having legs made her job easier, she said, because she could just slide under cars on the little skateboard thing she used to get around. She’d been married once, but was now dating two other guys, just enjoying herself for the time being. Her ex-husband was interviewed next, a good-looking guy, two legs, the whole nine yards. “I’d do anything to get her back, but I’m just not enough for her,” he said mournfully. “I hope she finds what she’s looking for.”
I found myself getting a little… well, not jealous, exactly, but it did seem this woman had an unfair advantage in the dating world. Everyone would look at her and say, Wow, what a plucky spirit. Isn’t she great! What about me? What about the two-legged among us, huh? How were we supposed to compete with that?
“Okay, Grace,” I told myself aloud, “we’re crossing the line. Let’s find you a boyfriend and be done with it, shall we? Angus, move it, sweetie. Mommy has to go up to the attic with this crap, or you’ll chew through it in a heartbeat, won’t you? Because you’re a very naughty boy, aren’t you? Don’t deny it. That’s my toothbrush you have in your mouth. I am not blind, young man.”
I dragged the trash bag full of stuff down the hall to the attic stairs. Drat. The light was out, and I didn’t feel like tromping downstairs to get another. Well, I was only stashing the stuff till I could make a trip to the dump.
Up the narrow flight of stairs I went, the close, sharp smell of cedar tickling my nose. Like many Victorian homes, mine had a full-size attic, ten-foot ceilings and windows all around. Someday, I imagined, I’d put up some insulation and drywall and make this a playroom for my lovely children. I’d have a bookshelf that ran all the way around the room. An art area near the front window where the sun streamed in. A train table over there, a dress-up corner here. But for now, it held just some old pieces of furniture, a couple of boxes of Christmas ornaments and my Civil War uniforms and guns. Oh, and my wedding dress.
What does one do with a never-been-worn, tailored-just-for-you wedding dress? I couldn’t just throw it out, could I? It had cost quite a bit. Granted, if I did find some flesh-and-blood version of Wyatt Dunn, maybe I’d get married, but would I want to use the dress I bought for Andrew? No, of course not. Yet there it still sat in its vacuum-packed bag, out of the sun so it wouldn’t fade. I wondered if it still fit. I’d packed on a few pounds since The Dumping. Hmm. Maybe I should try it on.
Great. I was becoming Miss Havisham. Next I’d be eating rotten food and setting the clocks