The Breakup Read Online Free Page B

in his Pokémon underwear eating Cocoa Puffs out of the box.
    This in itself is nothing new. Once basketball season commences, everything else can go to hell as far as Roger’s concerned.
     What
is
new: I didn’t really care! Sure, it all registered when I walked in: Pete. Awake. Underwear. Cocoa Puffs. The thing is, I
     didn’t feel
anything,
as if I’d been anesthetized, which sounds unpleasant, but is exactly what I’ve needed. For once, I had no interest in arguing
     with Roger. I just led Pete upstairs, tucked him in, jumped into the shower, and went to bed.
    ’Til next time,
    V
January 17
    Libby Taylor’s letter came this morning. Her fee is $250 a day. She said she’d have the job completed in ten to twelve business
     days. She wanted $500 now,and the balance after she turned in her report. I called and gave her the go-ahead. Now comes the hard part. Waiting.
    ’Til next time,
    V
January 18
    Yay! Keven is a genius. He fixed my copy machine. Total cost: sixty-five dollars and he threw in an extra toner cartridge.
     He also told me he could upgrade my computer so it would run programs like Napster. I invited him to stay for a cup of coffee
     and he agreed without hesitation. I hinted at the deteriorating state of my marriage, and he admitted to a string of unhappy
     relationships with women. I noticed he was wearing a Michigan sweatshirt. I probed a little and found out that he dropped
     out of Michigan in his senior year—he was a philosophy major—and never finished his degree. He wouldn’t say why. He’d always
     had a knack for building and fixing things, so he went into business for himself. “I still read philosophy,” he said mildly.
     I refilled his cup. “It’s a hobby, I guess.” I noticed that his eyes were the loveliest hue, a golden brown, like amber. I
     thought I could lose myself in those eyes. It was so nice to have a man in the house.
    As we spoke, amidst his high-tech clutter, with the sunlight streaming through the blinds, I watched hissmooth hands circle the coffee cup. He seemed like a man with secrets, a man who nursed some deep and tragic wound, and while
     this should have repelled me, I found it intensely attractive. I wondered what his secret might be.
    Eddie called to insist that there’s no reason to wait for Libby’s report. He wants to come over and help me search the house.
     Pete has a Tiger Cub pow-wow this weekend at Wesley Woods, and Roger is supposedly attending a writers’ retreat. I told Eddie
     he could stop by Saturday, around noon. I suspect he has more on his mind than gold.
    ’Til next time,
    V
January 21
    Eddie and I spent all afternoon and most of the evening searching for Roger’s hidden stash of gold bullions. We removed the
     ceiling tiles in the basement: nothing. Using a metal detector and stud finder, we scanned the drywall and floorboards: nothing.
     We looked behind the circuit breaker box in the garage: nothing. We pawed through every drawer in every dresser and cabinet
     in the house, through every box in the basement and garage, through every shelf and shoebox in every closet. No gold. I’m
     beginning to suspect Diana fabricated everything.
    I did, however, find the missing Austrian crystal necklace my father gave me on my sixteenth birthday, my Miles Davis CD,
     the power drill chuck key, a Norton Utilities disk, Pete’s preschool class picture, and my favorite leather gloves. We also
     found Roger’s stack of
Hustler
magazines. Six years’ worth. If these had been my husband’s only deep, dark secret, I would have been stunned. But compared
     to everything else I now know about the man, I just shook my head and laughed.
    As I write this, Eddie is sleeping on the couch. Despite my recent exhortations on the joys of unencumbered sex, I wasn’t
     in the mood tonight. I should be able to screw with impunity now. I’ve got nothing to lose. But I couldn’t locate even the
     tendrils of arousal. Maybe it’s the Prozac, or maybe it’s the