Author: Kristan Higgins

“Oh, Ethan, buddy, no one thinks that!” I protest.

His eyes crinkle in genuine amusement. “Anyone ever told you, Lucy, that you’re awfully naive?” I don’t answer, and Ethan continues. “I’ve pretty much spent my life being Not-Jimmy. He was the heir apparent. He was older, taller, funnier, better-looking, better in the kitchen. He got Dad’s eyes, Mom’s heart, the grandfathers’ name. He got the restaurant, he got the family recipes, he got—well. Whatever I do in my life, it won’t measure up to Jimmy.” He shoots me a sidelong glance. “In my parents’ eyes, anyway.”

My urge is to hug him, but I probably shouldn’t. “Does it bother you?” I ask quietly.

“Not so much anymore. I’m used to it. And my parents lost a child, so I try to cut them some slack. If anything ever happened to Nick, I don’t know what I’d do, and I hope to God never to find out.”

I swallow, not willing to think such thoughts. “You’re just as good as Jimmy, Ethan,” I say sincerely. “You’re different, that’s all.”

He looks at me a beat, and I get the feeling there’s something more he wants to say. But he doesn’t. “Come on, it’s getting cold” is all he offers, and we start walking once more, leaving the river behind, not talking until we reach the Boatworks. We stop at the entrance, which is one of the lovely touches of this building. Instead of an overhang, half a Herreshoff sailboat juts out from the brick. The building’s front doors were taken from a shipwreck and restored. Obviously we each know the code to get into the building, but we just stand there a moment, sheltered by the old wooden boat.

“You want to come up?” I ask. “I made profiteroles. And not just that…they’re served with a warm hazelnut mocha sauce.” He doesn’t answer. “We could play Guitar Hero, maybe?” There’s a desperate note to my voice, and I don’t imagine Ethan misses it. “Sound good, Eth?”

“Sounds great,” he replies with a considerable lack of enthusiasm. “But I don’t think I should come over, Lucy. Thanks, though.”

“Why? You don’t like my desserts anymore?” I ask. “Trying to drop a few, are you?” My joke falls flat…A) Ethan is as lean as a greyhound; and B) I know the real reason and don’t want it to be true. “You don’t have to eat,” I add. “We could watch a movie.” My heart is fluttering like a sick bird in my chest, and I feel dangerously close to tears.

“Lucy,” Ethan begins, looking down the street. “Look. You know I think you’re great and all, but maybe we should put some distance between us.”

“Why?” I squeak.

“Well, you want a new husband. He’s not going to appreciate you having an ex-lover hanging around, being your best friend forever.”

“But, you are my best friend, aren’t you?” I say around the pebble in my throat.

He hesitates, and that hideous bird in my chest goes into death spasm. “Sure. But I don’t want to be a substitute for what’s missing in your life, either.”

“You’re not a substitute!” I protest.

“Whatever you say, Luce.”

“Eth,” I attempt, “aren’t we still friends?”

“Lucy, you asked for some distance. I’m giving it to you.” There’s an edge to his voice now, and that little muscle under his eye ticks again.

“Well, forgive me, then,” I say, my voice brittle. “I thought we were friends. I guess we could be friends when we were sleeping together, but not now, huh?”

“No, Lucy!” he snaps. “You’re moving on, good for you, you should and all that crap. But you can’t have me filling in whenever you get lonely. Not if you’re about to dump me for a husband one of these days.”

“Dump you? We didn’t…we weren’t…” My voice trails off.

“No. We didn’t and we weren’t. So fine. Go out with Charley Spirito. Find a new guy, but leave me out of this.”

“But—”

“Lucy,” he says tightly. “You can’t have everything, okay? So back off.”

“I’m not asking for everything! I just want you to…to be my friend. Like you were.” At his dark look, I hastily amend that statement. “Well, without the sleeping together part. Just for us to be…buddies.”

“Buddies.” He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, buddy. I’m tired and I have an early meeting, so let’s call it a night.”

And with that, he punches in our code, holds the door open for me. When we get in the elevator, he pushes four for my floor, and five for his. Aside from “Good night,” we don’t say anything else.

CHAPTER NINE

“HOW WAS YOUR DATE WITH CHARLEY Spirito the other night?” Parker asks. “Nicky, not so high, honey.”

I watch as Nicky pumps his little legs harder, trying to make the swing wrap around the bar from which the chains dangle. Seems like he inherited Ethan’s thrill-seeker gene.

Corinne, wee Emma, Parker, Nicky and I are at Ellington Park, a safe two hundred yards from the cemetery entrance. It’s one of those perfect September days, the sky so brilliantly blue it makes your heart ache. The yeasty, welcoming smell of Bunny’s morning bread still flavors the air. I have forty-one minutes until the next batch is due out, but for now, I’m on my midday break. Emma smacks contentedly away at Corinne’s breast. My sister wears the serene face of pain that I’m coming to recognize as “nursing mother.” Or “saint dying a martyr’s death.” Same idea.

“You went out with Charley Spirito?” Corinne asks, snapping out of her haze to give me a dubious look. “No sir!”

“Mmm,” I say. “It was…well. Charley. You know.”

“Didn’t he put gum in your hair once?” Corinne asks.

“Wow, good memory,” I comment. “It was fine. I don’t know.”

“Just a whole lot of nothing?” Parker guesses.

“That’s about it,” I agree, tilting my face to the sunshine.

“Which is what you want,” my friend adds. “Nick, no, don’t jump. You’re too high. Good boy. Thanks.” Nicky waves, then jumps. Parker sighs as her son comes running over. “Nick, what would I tell Daddy if you snapped both your little ankles, huh? You want to go to the E.R.?”

“You shouldn’t scare children with the thought of getting health care,” Corinne advises in the singsong voice she uses whenever lecturing those of us who don’t have all of life’s answers. Parker rolls her eyes.

“Can we go to the E.R., Mommy?” Nicky asks. “I love the E.R.”

Parker tries to suppress a grin. “You were hurt when we went there, remember? When they sewed your hand?”

“It was fun,” Nicky insists. “I got a balloon, Wucy.”

“I remember,” I say, reaching out to tap his adorable nose with my index finger.

“Wucy, did you see me jump off the swing?”

“I sure did, honey,” I say, looking into his gorgeous brown eyes. Honestly, the boys always get the lashes, don’t they? “You looked like you were flying, but you know, Mommy’s right. That could hurt, if you landed wrong.”

“I didn’t land wrong. I landed up! Bye!” He canters over to the slide.

“He’s so beautiful,” I say. Jimmy’s nephew. Sad that Nicky is the closest thing to Jimmy’s child I’ll ever have. I think we would’ve made such gorgeous kids. The thought is a reflex by now, the pain worn to a nub with overuse.

“So, back to the date,” Corinne says. “Is Charley a contender?”

I pause. In truth, Charley’s not that bad. Just not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Honestly, he does match a lot of my requirements. Fairly recession-proof job. As a physed teacher, he’s in great shape, which is not only aesthetically pleasing but a huge plus with the Low Risk of Early Death requirement. Charley seems good-hearted, I guess. He obviously likes kids (though being a gym teacher, one could argue that in fact, he hates kids). It’s just that the idea of sex with Charley…

Saturday night, Charley took me to Cuckoo’s Grille in Kingstown. The waitress was the mother of a woman we’d been to school with, so it was a typical Rhode Island two-degrees-of-separation night. When the pleasantries and updates were completed and the order for stuffed clams, or stuffies, as we like to call them, had been placed, Charley and I stared awkwardly at each other across the table. Then he launched into a discussion of the Red Sox, passionately making the case that without Varitek’s “goddamn torn ligament,” there was no way in hell that those “goddamn Yankees” would be in “first goddamn place,” and furthermore, what was wrong with Boston’s new shortstop, the guy was a “goddamn zombie.”

At the word Yankees, I recalled my fond fantasy of Joe Torre as my stepfather. If such were the case, I wouldn’t be on a date with Charley…not when dear old Joe would fix up his beloved stepdaughter with a millionaire baseball player who was single, didn’t do steroids, visit prostitutes, date Madonna, throw his helmet, chew tobacco, spit or scratch his groin in public, if such a creature indeed existed.

When our food came, Charley turned his attention to his steak and didn’t lift his head until his plate was clean. It was this sort of thing that made me think I could probably sleep through sex with Charley without him noticing.

The last time Ethan and I, er, had relations, it was roughly ten minutes after he’d returned from a trip to Montreal, and I’d jumped him the second he walked through my door. We’d done it standing up in the hallway, me against the wall, legs wrapped around him and quite vocal, as I recall. A framed picture fell to the floor, the glass breaking, but we didn’t stop until we, um, stopped.

No one slept through anything.

“Guess what?” Parker interrupts.

“What?” I yelp guiltily. Cripes, am I blushing?

“Ethan dropped by last night,” she says.

My cheeks burn hotter. “So? He’s the father of your child. He drops by a lot.” I look at my hands.

Parker gives me an odd look. “Well, hush and let me finish.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. Corinne pats Emma on the back, eliciting a shockingly loud belch for so tiny a package.

“So he asked if I wanted to go out. On a date. He said that maybe we should try having a real relationship, rather than just be the two parents of our son. Nicky, get down, honey. That’s too high. Good boy.”

“That’s sweet,” Corinne says.

“Sweet,” I echo. My knees tingle with adrenaline, though I don’t know why (the little hallway memory probably has a lot to do with it). Sober up, Lucy, I tell myself firmly. I’ve always thought there was more potential to Ethan and Parker than either of them did. “So? Are you gonna try?” I ask.

She grimaces. “I don’t know. It seems good on paper. It’s just not…I don’t know.”

“You should. You should marry him,” I say. God knows I’d love to have someone I liked, respected, admired, would father adorable children and who didn’t make my knees weak. And while my voice sounds normal, my heart is convulsing like a striper pulled out of the water.

Parker sighs. “Maybe I should,” she agrees with a considerable lack of enthusiasm. “But—”

At that moment, my sister’s cell phone rings, and she jumps like it’s the red phone in the Oval Office. “Hello? Chris? Are you okay? Honey?” She’s quiet a minute. “Sure! I’m fine! Oh, she’s wonderful! Beautiful! Perfect! How are you, sweetheart? I love you so much.”