The Wishbones. Tom Perrotta

down on the couch and stretched her legs out in front of her, resting them on the coffee table next to the bowl of chips that had supplied her bookmark. One leg of her sweatpants was pushed all the way up past her knee, while the other one extended down to her ankle. She put her hands behind her head and smiled up at him.

      “So what happened at the showcase?”

      Dave opened his mouth to tell her about Phil Hart, but something went haywire in his brain. He looked at her and thought how pretty she was, smiling up at him, rubbing her heel over her bare shin, waiting for his answer. He thought of how much they'd been through together, and how crazy he was to imagine that he would ever want more from life than she'd be able to give him. He spoke without intending to, and didn't really gauge the significance of his words until it was too late, until she was already off the couch and in his arms.

      “Let's get married,” is what he'd told her.

       WE'RE SOOOO THRILLED

      He woke the next morning with a consciousness—it felt something like a hangover—of having made a terrible mistake. He couldn't figure out how it had happened, how he'd allowed years of resolve to crumble in a single moment of weakness. In the half darkness of his bedroom, he fantasized about calling and rescinding the offer.

      “I'm not ready,” he'd explain. “I don't have a steady job or any money in the bank. You deserve someone more reliable, a husband you can count on.” He figured he'd leave out the part about not believing himself capable of a lifetime of sexual fidelity.

      “So why'd you do it?” she'd ask, more curious than upset. “Why'd you propose if you didn't mean it?”

      “I—I really don't know. I was just in a weird mood or something.” He could hear the lameness of his excuse. “I love you, but I'm just not prepared for this.”

      The imaginary Julie listened carefully, her brow knitting into wavy lines of concentration. “I understand, Dave. It would be crazy for us to get married right now. But I do want to continue having sex with you.” Her voice dipped into a more sultry register. “In fact, I want to have sex with you right now.”

      He threw off the covers and forced himself to get out of bed. This was no time to get sidetracked. He really did have to figure out a way to tell her that he hadn't actually meant to pop the question (though it wasn't even a question, now that he thought about it), but had somehow taken leave of his senses as a result of Phil's sudden death and that pushed-up leg of her sweatpants …

      It wasn't going to be easy, he could see that. But maybe he wouldn't have to convince her. Maybe Julie was having second thoughts, too. Maybe she'd opened her eyes that morning and had the same realization as Dave—that they were acting rashly, that this was precisely the wrong time to be making such a momentous decision. He resolved to go downstairs, have a cup of coffee, and call her at the office. It was entirely possible that they could straighten out this mess in a matter of minutes, and maybe even laugh about it afterwards.

      As usual, he had the house to himself. His mother left at seven to catch the train to Newark, and his father left at eight for his part-time retirement gig as a deliveryman for a local printer who called himself “Mr. Speedy.” Dave did the same sort of work, driving on a freelance basis for a courier service owned by Artie's brother, Rick. Mostly he worked afternoons, but his schedule was erratic. Some days he drove for three hours, some for twelve. It all depended. Some days he didn't work at all.

      He should have been used to it by now, but being alone in the house on a weekday still made him feel like he was back in high school and had just put one over on his parents. All sorts of exciting and illicit behaviors offered themselves up for consideration. He could smoke a joint, phone an escort service, fry up a whole box of breakfast sausages. In the end, though, all he ever did was sit down in front of the muted TV and strum his acoustic guitar.

      On the way to the coffeemaker, he stopped to read the note his mother had left on the kitchen table. She never failed to dream up an errand or two to fill his morning, as though she couldn't bear the thought of a grown man alone for a few hours with absolutely nothing to do. But today's message was completely er rand-free.

      “CONGRATULATIONS!!” it said. “We're soooo thrilled. Julie's a wonderful girl.” Then, at the bottom of the page, in tiny letters: “P.S.— It's about time.”

      His mother answered on the second ring. “Mr. Nordberg's office.” There was a singsong lilt in her voice, a sunny, professional note that still caught him off guard after all these years of calling her at the office.

      “It's me,” he said.

      “HELL-loo,” she cooed, shifting to a more maternal, but equally cheerful tone. “I was just about to call. Your father and I are so happy, honey.”

      “How'd you find out?”

      “Dolores called this morning, right before I left. Didn't you hear the phone?”

      “I must have slept right through it.”

      “Have you picked a date?”

      “Not yet.”

      “September's a good month.”

      “This September?”

      “August is too hot. And lots of people are away. I think you should hold off till September.”

      “You mean four months from now?”

      “It's May now, so let's see … June, July, August … Four months sounds about right.”

      “That's a little soon, don't you think?”

      His mother laughed. “When you've been dating the girl for fifteen years, honey, you don't need a long engagement.”

      “Mom,” he said, making an effort to control his exasperation, “we haven't been going out for fifteen years. Everybody says that, but it's just not true.”

      “On and off,” his mother said, correcting her error. “Fifteen years on and off.”

      “Okay, whatever. It's really not worth arguing about.”

      “Anyway, for what it's worth, I still think September is a good month.”

      “I'll keep that in mind.”

      A brief silence ensued. When his mother spoke, her voice had dwindled into a worried, confidential whisper. “She's not … in trouble, is she?”

      “In trouble?” Dave teased. “You mean with the law?”

      “Ha ha,” she replied.

      “Not that I know of.”

      “Good.” Another phone rang at her end of the line. “I have to grab that, honey. Bye.”

      “Okay,” he told the hum that had replaced his mother. “Talk to you later.”

      Julie Called before he'd swallowed his second sip of coffee.

      “Hey, sleepyhead.”

      “Oh, hi.”

      “What's wrong?” she asked quickly. He caught the barely perceptible note of fear in her voice.

      “Nothing.”

      “You don't sound too good.”

      “I'm fine.”

      “Are you sure?”

      He saw the opening, but couldn't bring himself to take it. The kind of talk they needed to have, you couldn't do over the phone, he realized, especially during business hours.

      “I didn't get to tell you last night. Phil Hart died at the showcase. He collapsed right onstage.”

      “Phil Hart?”

      “You know,” Dave told her.