Every Other Saturday Read Online Free Page B

icy and clear behind him. Dave jumped, dropped the wine bottle, and managed to catch it just as it bounced against the side of the plastic recycling bin. He set it down the last few inches, awkwardly, before turning to face her.
    Debbie wore a white camisole and thin bra over her tanned shoulders, with a navy suit skirt and bare feet. Half of her frizzy brown hair had been tamed with the flat iron, the other stuck out in wild waves. Some sort of terrifying white cream streaked her forehead and surrounded her mouth and eyes. She had a hand on one hip and hot anger in her eyes. If there had been a tunnel out of the mudroom, Dave would have taken it.
    “There are full bottles in the wine cabinet if you want some,” she said coldly.
    “Sorry,” he managed. “I was just bringing by Lyric’s LeapPad.”
    “You put it in the recycling bin?”
    Dave shook his head stupidly and nodded at the island behind her. “I thought you would need it. Today. At work.” It was meant as an explanation but he knew it didn’t sound like one.
    She glared at him, unmoving, looking like an escapee from a fire at a beauty college. They stood there, silently defying each other, the tension from every fight they’d had in the past fifteen years electric and volatile between them. His fists clenched and unclenched nervously by his sides. The half-formed accusations and anger that had run through his sleepless brain all night began working their way to his lips. Five words: Was Aaron here last night? He just had to say them, and he’d be out of his misery.
    Courage, man, Dave thought. Take your medicine.
    And then something entirely new happened. Debbie broke. She glanced behind Dave at the recycling bin and lowered her eyes with a sigh. “It’s okay.” She fluttered a dismissive hand.
    Never in the history of the world, as far as Dave knew, had Debbie Blank Bernstein backed down from a fight. Not with her father, not with her brothers, and sure as hell not with him. And she had him. She’d caught him breaking in and snooping around her house—never mind that he was still paying most of the mortgage—with the world’s lamest excuse.
    When they’d been married, this would have meant a two-hour discussion about boundaries and respect. Now she was looking down, wiping furiously at an imaginary spot of something on her skirt. My G-d, was she blushing?
    This was bad, Dave decided. Very, very bad.
    # # #
    Half an hour later, Dave entered the radio station building, Starbucks in hand, for his usual Friday spot on SportsZone’s Morning Breath with Sherm and Phil . The wiry little producer, Kenneth, accosted him as soon as the elevator doors opened.
    “Oh, good. You’re early. He grinned and shuffled Dave along with his ever-present black clipboard. He walked quickly for a small man, forcing Dave to match his pace with a rivulet of coffee dripping down his wrist.
    “How’s it going? Good? You’re okay? Quite a response! You know what they say, all publicity is good publicity.”
    “You saw it?” The video had been up less than twelve hours. Dave hadn’t even looked to see whether there were comments yet.
    “Of course I saw it,” Kenneth said. “I always check your blog on Thursday night. Great stuff, man. Very heartfelt. Takes balls.”
    “Thanks,” Dave said uncertainly.
    “We’ll get you on early today and maybe take some calls about the dating thing, if that’s okay? You didn’t have anything else planned, did you?”
    “College football is coming up—”
    “That can wait. They want to talk about you today.”
    Dave felt a thrill of excitement, accompanied by embarrassment. Why hadn’t he checked the responses to the video? “Do you have a computer I can borrow?”
    “Sure. But we need to get you in there soon.”
    With Kenneth twitching and pacing behind him, Dave logged in to his blog and went straight to the J-Date entry. He let out a breath that was half-whistle, half-sigh. Three hundred and forty-seven comments on