Love Stories in This Town. Amanda Eyre Ward

I said, poking an ice cube with my straw.

      “I’m not hungry, but I’m getting fried chicken,” said Greg.

      “I miss it,” I said. Greg slid his chair next to mine and took me in his arms.

      “I know,” he said. “Me too.”

      Three nights before, I had climbed into bed and said, “I have a little blood in my underwear.”

      “What?”

      “But I looked on the Internet. Something about old blood, sometimes, like making room for the growing uterus or something. I don’t know.” I felt a sick excitement, speculating that I’d get some extra attention and maybe see the baby on an early sonogram, paid for by Blue Cross/Blue Shield.

      “It’s probably nothing,” Greg had said, putting one hand on my stomach and the other on his fruitfly genome data.

      After two rounds of margaritas, we went to our hotel room. Greg took a shower and joined me in bed, smelling of the hotel’s ginger citrus shampoo. When he fell asleep, I was alone in a humid city.

      I was six when a man approached my mother near the perfume counter at Dillard’s. Once in a while, she took us shopping in Atlanta, about an hour from our hometown of Haralson, Georgia, population 143. The man asked my mother if she’d ever thought of being a model. She laughed in a way I had never heard, showing her throat. She said she was happily married with two small children. The man told my mother they had nannies in Paris, who were called au pairs.

      In my memory, the man had dark hair and shiny skin. He wore a suit and tie. He handed her a card and said, “Just promise me you’ll think about it.” My mother was a rare beauty, he said.

      She looked at the card, her forehead creased. She said, “I’ll think about it. Okay, I will, I’ll think about it.” She bought a shirt for my brother and a plaid jumper for me, and then she drove us home.

      She was beautiful, my mother. She’d rest her long, bare arms on her knees and stare into space while I tried to capture her attention. She didn’t cook, like other mothers, or put name tags in my clothes. I can imagine her hanging my new dress in my closet, mulling her options. Did she even hesitate? Lighting a cigarette, dialing the number, packing her suitcase.

      I don’t know if she made it to Paris, or became famous there. Whatever she found, I hope it brought her happiness. I hope it was better than my brother and me.

      At ten the next morning, I climbed into the front seat of Joe’s mother-in-law’s minivan. Greg was in the back, next to the cooler. We drove south, heading into a neighborhood I loved immediately. There was a big park with a swimming pool, and a jungle gym surrounded by moms holding take-out coffees.

      “Okeydokey,” said Joe, looking through a messy pile of papers, each a possible place for us to live. “Okay, now,” he said, “we’re a few blocks from the Ginger Man, a good little bar.”

      Greg and I locked eyes happily.

      We walked into the house, and it was perfect. High ceilings, a big open kitchen for me to cook in, or learn to cook in. A bonus craft room, where I could put the Singer sewing machine my father had given me when I graduated from college three years before. I found Greg in a second garden, off the bedroom. He stood with his hands on his hips, gazing up at the canopy of trees. When I approached, he turned and looked at me.

      “We found it,” I said.

      “I could love this,” he agreed quietly.

      “Yes,” I said. My mind swam with visions of us: reading the paper on the front step, walking across the street with towels slung around our necks, tucking someone into bed in the kids’ room. I opened the freezer and saw ice-cream sandwiches. I thought, I love ice-cream sandwiches.

      Maybe it was the caffeine—which I was drinking for the first time in months—but the next few houses were a blur. We chattered about mortgages and contracts. As Joe drove, I furnished the house in my mind: a sleek couch in front of the fireplace—maybe leather? I imagined myself in the craft room, sliding fabric under the needle, really making a go of Madeline Designs, now that I no longer had to waitress every night.

      Joe’s cell phone rang. “Hello?” he said. “No, no,” he said. “Couldn’t have been me.” He snapped the phone shut and turned to look at us. “Somebody took the key to the first house. That was the owner. He’s pissed.” He shook his head and chuckled.

      I looked at Greg, who said coldly, “Why don’t you check your pockets, Joe.”

      Joe’s phone rang again. “What?” he said. He started to flush. “Well, okeydokey,” he said. “I-I-I…” He stopped talking and nodded, then closed the phone. “I guess we’re the only ones who’ve been there. But I just don’t—”

      “Watch out for the divider,” said Greg in a steely voice.

      As we doubled back to all the houses we’d seen, I tried to calm my husband. “It’s going to be perfect,” I said, as he muttered, “total waste of our time.” After Joe found the key to our dream house, locked in another house, he called the owners. “Hi there, Joe Jones, Lone Star Realty,” he said. “The funniest thing—”

      “Don’t turn on University,” said Greg from the backseat. Joe turned on University. We sat in traffic caused by a construction site—a site we had driven by earlier—in complete silence.

      By lunchtime, we had returned the key. The house looked better than ever. A lemonade stand had been set up by the park. A little boy rode by on his bicycle, a wrapped birthday present in the basket.

      Joe took us out to lunch. I popped my pills right at the table and changed my Maxi Pad in the bathroom. I was not healthy. I ate a cheeseburger with avocado, cheddar, and bacon. I called my father in Haralson and said, “We found it,” and my father said, “That’s wonderful, Kimmy.”

      Across the restaurant, Greg spoke excitedly into his cell phone. “Mom,” he said, “Listen to this, Mom…”

      Over lunch, we filled out the paperwork, making an offer for full price and then some. Joe assured us we would get the house. Between bites of his burrito, Joe told us he had just hit his stride at Enron when the shit storm hit. “Thought I’d give this real estate thing a try,” he said. He talked about his six-month-old baby, whom he called “Girly.” His wife, also an Enron-employee-turned-realtor, he called “Doll.”

      After lunch, we drank Diet Dr Pepper and looked at many houses that sucked, feeling superior.

      That night, I wore a strapless dress. It was deep green, and had a matching jacket with three-quarter-length sleeves. We wandered around the Woodlands, trying to find a restaurant where we could splurge, though we were nervous about spending every cent PharmaLab had promised and hundreds of thousands they hadn’t. If we got the house, we could no longer say, “Oh, screw Big Pharma. Let’s just move to Wyoming and live off the land.”

      Though we were outside, I felt as if we were trapped in a mall, with one neon-lit shop after another. All we could find was a Cheesecake Factory, and I’ve never liked cheesecake, so we returned to the Great American Grill.

      “Cheers,” I said, holding my margarita high.

      Greg brought his glass to mine, and said, “Cheers, my love.” We toasted ourselves, and the little family we would begin, as soon as I was no longer bleeding heavily. A week before, I had packed some Victoria’s Secret Supermodel Sexy Whipped Body Cream into my suitcase. It would keep.

      The gold minivan pulled up as usual in the morning, but Joe was no longer at the wheel. Instead, Doll—whose real name was Sally—hopped out. She was short and plump, her red hair in barrettes. “Joe wanted a day with the baby, and I needed some adult time,” Sally explained. Her skirt was tight and orange, and she wore plastic jelly sandals. As we sipped coffee and ate bagels, Sally’s phone rang. It appeared her phone was broken, and she could use only the speaker attachment.

      With