I Think You're Totally Wrong Read Online Free

Market, in Sultan, Washington, where they bought groceries. Groceries and beer.
    DAVID: So who’s this guy whose house we’re staying at?
    CALEB: Khamta. He’s with his wife and son in Hawaii. His wife is his ex-girlfriend’s ex-girlfriend.
    DAVID: Yowza.
    CALEB: His wife and ex are/were bi.
    DAVID: Got it. How do you know him?
    CALEB: I grew up in Coupeville—fifty miles north of Seattle. Two friends from high school, Dave Barouh and Khamta Khongsavanh, built houses outside of Skykomish. I worked on both houses. Barouh’s is smaller and the power has a problem, so we’ll probably stay at Khamta’s.
    DAVID: I’m happy to stay wherever you want. What are my requirements? Warm. I like heat. And I’d like to take some walks.
    CALEB: I have a Washington State Parks pass. We can do casual or serious hikes. I know the terrain. Whenever I’d work on these houses, I’d stay a few days. Terry calls them work vacations.
    DAVID: Is it hard to leave? Are the girls fine being with Terry?
    CALEB: They favor her. When she comes home, they leave me and pounce on her. My wife’s a better wage earner, and if she were a full-time mom, she’d be better at that, too.
    DAVID: I’ll bet you’re better at it than most men would be.
    CALEB: I’ll give myself that.

    DAVID: What’s the state of your novel? I thought it was eminently publishable (whatever that means). Didn’t Sarah Crichton at FSG [the publisher Farrar, Straus & Giroux] like it a lot?
    CALEB: She was hooked by the beginning but thought it lost momentum.
    DAVID: That would have been so great.
    CALEB: Would have been. You liked my novel but didn’t love it.
    DAVID: I think that’s fair.
    CALEB: I had to push you to read it.
    DAVID: I’m a hard sell: I’m not interested anymore in the conventional novel.
    CALEB: My novel’s been rejected by some really great editors. My agent tried her best, got it to the right people.
    DAVID: Where’s she based?
    CALEB: D.C. Her biggest clients are a congresswoman named Barbara Lee and Helen Thomas until she dumped Helen after her anti-Semitic tirade. She didn’t change a word of my manuscript, just sent it off. She sells genre fiction and nonfiction by politicians and journalists. I’m the only “literary” writer she has. It’s time for me to switch.
    DAVID: It’s best not to tell an agent or an editor what’s going on until you have to. You have to be willing to piss people off.
    CALEB: That shouldn’t be a problem.

    CALEB: We just passed Baring. One grocery store/post office. Same building. We’re near Stevens Pass.
    (parking in front of a run-down house)
    What do you think?
    (long silence)
    DAVID: Okay.
    CALEB: Let’s go in.
    DAVID: Okay.
    CALEB: We’ve got different senses of humor.
    DAVID: I find stuff funny. I just don’t laugh all the time.
    CALEB: Look at that house. You’d stay there?
    DAVID: Why not?
    CALEB: I wondered whether to do this. I told my wife, and she said, “Really?” You’d have a stoic expression, and I’d tell you that it was a joke, and you’d say, “Huh?”
    DAVID: You should do it, whatever it is. Ah, I see. I’m an idiot. You were going to pretend this horrible place is where we were staying, and I would freak out.
    CALEB: Pretend?
    DAVID: If you’re joking, it would be the kind of thing I’d laugh at.
    CALEB: This house hasn’t been lived in for ten years. No lights, grass four feet high, broken windows. I was working up to telling you we’re staying at a meth lab. Sensors, wires, and pit bulls. You’d stay here?
    DAVID: I could handle it.
    CALEB:
(driving farther on the dirt road)
I give up.

    CALEB: Skykomish, September 29th, 2011, 8:57 p.m. We’re about one mile south of Highway 2 and three miles west of the town of Skykomish. We turned off Money Creek Road, down a dirt road, a driveway, and are entering