Page 7 of Such a Good Wife

I cannot shut up. But he doesn’t react to my deranged monologue, he just smiles and holds his hand out for me to...give him the book? I guess?

“Please. I’d love for you to have it,” he says, signing the inside cover. “On me.”

“Oh, no...I...”

“I insist.” He hands it back and I take it, looking down at his signature.

“Well...thank you,” I stutter, and he holds his wine up for a toast.

“My pleasure. You’re in the writing group?” He nods his head toward the table the group had met at earlier.

“Oh. Me? No. Well, yes, technically.” Why am I talking like this? I can’t form a sentence. “Just started it, so...we’ll see.”

“You’re a writer, then.”

“God, I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just...an imposter, I think.”

“Well, I think I’m pretty good at reading people and I have a sneaking suspicion you’re underestimating yourself.”

“Ooooh,” I say in a weird singsong way, “I don’t know.”

“Look, take my card if you ever wanna send me any of your stuff. I’ll read it, maybe pass it on.”

I think my mouth is hanging open again. Pass it on? Like to an agent or something? What the hell?

“Why?” I ask, with genuine confusion. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know Jonathan and he’s kind of an asshat,” he says, and I pull my glass away from my lips so wine doesn’t come out my nose as I laugh at this. “Just in case you’re looking for additional feedback. Besides, well, Jonathan. No pressure.”

I take his card and slip it into my purse.

“Okay,” I say, feeling suddenly shy and ridiculous. I have half a glass of wine left, it would be strange to leave, even though I’m incapable of masking my chest, which is sporting red, embarrassed blotches again. I probably look like a leper. Also, I find that I don’t want to leave. He’s probably the most fascinating person I’ll ever have the opportunity to meet, so I use the back of his book to make conversation and pull the focus far away from my own “writing.”

“It says here you’re from Boston. Pretty big switch—big city to this. How do you like our little town?”

“Well, yes. I love it. It’s quaint. I like how quiet it is. I actually spend most of my time at my place in New Orleans, but holidays and summer here.”

“Really, why’s that?” I ask, then stop and laugh. “That’s absolutely none of my business.”

“No, doesn’t bother me. My brother met a Louisiana girl on a business trip and they settled here near her family. So, naturally my parents moved here to be near the grandkids when they retired.”

“You were all alone in Boston?” I ask. Did that sound like I was asking about his relationship status? Oh, that was like bad exposition. What am I doing?

“Yep. So the deal was I’d move down, but I need the city, so New Orleans is close enough for visits, and I rent a summer home here to get away and write from July to September, so it works.”

“I don’t blame you for not being able to live here full-time.” I think I make a disgusted sound, though I don’t mean it to come off the way it does.

“Not a fan?” he asks.

“Oh. No. Yeah. No, I just, it’s fine. It’s no Boston or New Orleans. I’ve never been to Boston actually, but I just mean, when you’ve lived in exciting places, it would be tough to have a karaoke bar with a mechanical bull as the most interesting form of ‘culture’ within a sixty-mile radius.” I laugh, but it’s sort of sad sounding. I don’t know what else to say so I focus my attention on the barista girl, and pull out my card to pay. He places his hand over mine.

“I’ll get this,” he says.

“Oh my gosh. No way, you gave me a book, I should be getting yours.” But he’s already handed the girl cash.

“It’s not every day I get a chance to have a nice chat with an attractive and very funny writer.”

He thinks I’m funny? I’m a Neanderthal. I can’t even string a sentence together.

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