Author: Kristan Higgins

I take a breath and smile gamely at the person in front of me. Average-looking, blond, brown eyes. Be brave, angel, I imagine Jimmy saying. What the heck. I smile, trying not to look like Oliver Twist.

“Yes,” I say.

“No,” he replies.

“Change!”

By the end of the Chain Gang Shuffle, I have collected four cards; Parker, twenty-one. We women go to our designated tables and sit, waiting for our suitors to visit.

My first Yes is just what the doctor ordered. He’s rather bland but wears a nice suit. He has a serious, thoughtful face that bodes well for commitment and wise choices, unlike (for example) Ethan’s devilish eyebrows and delicious smile. Even his tie bespeaks stability. Navy blue, no pattern, very unthreatening. The kind of tie an accountant might wear.

“Hello,” I say as he sits down. “I’m Lucy Mirabelli.”

“Hi,” he replies. “I’m Todd Smith.” Perfect. A nice boring name. Todd Smith simply could not be a dangerous man, not with a name and a tie like that.

“What do you do for a living, Todd?” I ask.

“I’m an accountant.”

My smiles grows more genuine. “I’m a baker,” I say.

“Interesting.”

“Mmm,” I murmur. “Yup.” We look at each other. My smile starts to feel a little stiff. I look at my hands, primly folded in front of me. Todd has a similarly wooden smile on his face. Or maybe it’s his normal smile. I picture seeing that smile across the kitchen table for the next fifty years. Suppress a sigh.

Next to me, Parker is howling with laughter over something her guy said. She tosses her hair, and he leans forward, grinning. Across from me, Todd blinks and cocks his head. I’m reminded of a lizard. Blink, blink. Perhaps his tongue will shoot out and he’ll catch a fly.

“So. An accountant,” I say.

“Yes. That’s right.”

My toes curl in my shoes. Granted, I wanted boring. Reliable, my conscience corrects in a chastising voice. Yes, yes, reliable. Someone who didn’t love me so much he tried to stay awake for twenty straight hours. Someone with the sense to pull over, no matter what his smitten wife might’ve said.

“Do you like movies?” I ask, searching my brain for something to talk about. “I’m a big movie watcher. I watched Star Wars last night.” Surely everyone on earth has seen StarWars.

“I don’t watch movies, no.” Todd replies. His face is so impassive it could be carved from wood. “I tend to watch CNN more than anything. Their financial reporting is top-notch.”

“And that Anderson Cooper sure is a hottie,” I add without thinking. Oopsy. Todd’s face doesn’t change. He doesn’t seem to mind. Then again, he doesn’t seem to be alive, either. I forge on, albeit with a creeping certainty that Todd is, in fact, an android. “But you’ve seen Star Wars, right?”

“No.”

“But…I mean, it’s part of Americana. NASA sent Luke Skywalker’s light saber into space.”

“I haven’t seen Star Wars.” He forces a smile and says nothing more.

“Do you like dessert?” I ask with a hint of desperation.

“I love Nilla Wafers,” he answers. “Other than that, I really don’t indulge. It’s a sign of weakness, don’t you agree?”

Okay, he’s out. Mercifully our ten minutes are up. “A pleasure,” Todd says, standing and melting back into the crowd.

“Bye,” I say, but he’s already gone.

Parker’s guy, who looks like Matt Damon, just for the record, smooches her on the cheek. “Can’t wait to read your books,” he says fondly.

“They’re disgusting. Give them only to children you hate.” She smiles and tosses her gorgeous hair back, then looks at me. “So how was your guy?”

“He was a dud,” I answer.

“It’s all good,” Parker says. “There are bound to be duds. You’re here. It’s a big step. Hey, we should ask Ethan to come with us next time. He’s probably looking, too, now that you cut him off.”

“I didn’t cut him off!” I splutter. “It was just time to end our…thing. And he was so fine with it, I wonder if he even noticed.”

Parker turns her attention to the guy in front of her. I wait for my own next Yes to show up, but apparently, he’s morphed into a No, since he’s over with a woman whose blouse is so low-cut I can see areola. I look away. After Corinne’s little peep show in my room earlier, I’ve had all the nipple I can take.

Maybe I should work on Parker. Ethan asked her to marry him. Twice, actually. Once when she told him she was preggers, once a few weeks after Nicky was born. Granted, it was largely because of his Italian sense of family and honor, but still. He didn’t have to.

I’m snapped out of my reverie by a tap on the shoulder. Ah, my third Yes. “Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he replies. “I’m Kyle.”

“I’m Lucy,” I say. I’m looking for a guy I don’t love too much. Want to give it a shot?

He smiles. It’s a nice grin, but not too nice. Brown hair, hazel eyes. I imagine him coming through the door every night. It’s not horrible. Progress. Kyle takes a seat. “So,” he says amiably. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

I take a deep breath. “Well, I’m a widow. And my friend thought this would be a good way to start getting out there, you know?”

He nods. “A widow, huh? Awesome.”

I have to say, that’s not the usual response. “Excuse me?”

Kyle leans back in his chair and smiles contentedly. “Well, you’re not some skank nobody wants, you know what I’m saying? Like, some guy already thought you were pretty hot, popped the question, then ran into some bad luck, am I right?” My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Kyle doesn’t seem to notice. “And you’re not some trashy ho who plows through the dudes, either, I’m guessing, since you look all nice and clean and stuff. So you know…cool. You being a widow and all. You must be pretty horny, too, you know what I’m saying?”

Suddenly I feel the spirit of Attila the Hun, my ancestor, materialize 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.