The Husband Hour(43)

She shook her head, moving into the room. “I was a little older than you. The first book didn’t come out until I was in fifth grade.”

He looked at her in amazement. She was older than the Harry Potter books. Great. Because I don’t feel ancient enough already.

“I got a copy for my birthday and my mom said she’d read it to me but she hasn’t yet.”

“Oh,” Lauren said. How ironic that Stephanie had a kid who loved books. Stephanie once told Lauren that the act of reading was like trying to eat through a straw shoved up her nose “except more painful.”

“Do you want to see it?” he asked, already scrambling off the bed. Before she could answer, he’d unearthed the thick paperback from a pile of books next to his unpacked suitcase.

“Very cool,” she said when he handed it to her. And then, ignoring the call of her cheesesteak growing cold in the plastic bag, she said, “I could start reading it to you. If you’re not too tired.”

“I’m not tired,” he said, stifling a yawn.

“Okay.” She laughed. “So…I’m ready when you are.”

She sat on the edge of his bed, feeling awkward. She wasn’t used to being around children. Clearly, they had a very different sense of personal space than adults, because he wriggled right up next to her.

“Is the author a boy or girl?” he asked.

“She’s a girl. A woman.”

Ethan looked disappointed.

“But there are lots of great men writers,” she added.

“Like the man who wrote Star Wars?”

“Yeah, well, Star Wars is a movie, not a book.”

“Harry Potter is a movie.”

“True. But it was a book first.”

“What’s harder, writing a book or writing a movie?”

“Um, I don’t know. Probably writing a book. Why?”

He shrugged. “My mom said you were a writer.”

“She did?” It was strange to imagine Stephanie talking about her or even thinking about her at all. “Well, I wanted to be a writer. But articles in the newspaper, not books.”

“And you don’t want to be one anymore?”

Oh God. “Well, I got really sad for a while and it’s been hard to think about writing or a lot of the things I used to do.”

“Why were you sad?”

She hesitated, but then, why not? It was the truth.

“My husband died. You don’t remember him but, well, that’s why I’ve been sad.”

“My mom says when I’m sad I need to think about things that make me happy and then I won’t be sad anymore.”

Lauren nodded. “That’s good advice. I guess I should try that sometime.”

“I’m ready,” he said, touching the book with reverence.

She opened to the first page. “‘Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much’…”

Ethan’s eyes locked on the page, and he read along as best he could. She put her arm around him, falling into the rhythm of the words, feeling a strange sensation. If she had to pinpoint what it was, she would have to say she was almost…content.



Matt elbowed his way to the bar and flagged Desiree for a beer and a shot of Tito’s. The guy next to him nodded at Matt in recognition. Matt wondered how many more nights of complete obliteration would be necessary before he counted as a regular.

Game six of the Stanley Cup finals played out on the two screens on opposite ends of the bar. He watched one of the centers fly down the ice and imagined how it would feel to be knocked into the boards at that speed.

“Hey,” someone said, tugging on his T-shirt, barely audible over the music and the crowd. He turned around. Stephanie, holding a beer, smiling drunkenly.

“It’s your unlucky night,” she said.

“I don’t need you to tell me that.”

“I’m here with someone,” she said conspiratorially.

He looked around. “Well, good for you.”

“He’s in the bathroom.”

“More information than I need, but okay.” He turned back to the game.

“Who are you rooting for?” she asked, squeezing in next to him.

“Myself,” he said, downing the shot. “Hey, let me ask you something. Do you think Rory changed over time? Did he become…angrier? More difficult?”

“Hmm,” she said. “Was Rory Kincaid born an asshole or did he become an asshole? That’s a tough one.”

“I still don’t know why you keep insisting he was such a bad guy.”

Matt barely got the question out before a man appeared, put his hand on Stephanie’s shoulder. He had reddish hair and wore an expensive watch. If Matt had to bet, he’d say he wasn’t local. He was a New Yorker. Maybe LA.

“See ya,” Stephanie said, slipping off with the man into the crowd. He watched her until she was out the door, his unanswered question hanging like a rope around his neck.





Chapter Twenty-Four



What’s up with these?” Lauren signed in at the counter, stepping around a stack of framed photos. “Redecorating?”