Triple Love Score Read Online Free Page A

than ignoring poetry altogether. Plus no one ever made the connection between her and the Blocked Poet; she could post whatever sappy word sculptures she wanted without fear.
    Miranda took another sip of her wine and began rooting through the tiles. Friend, she laid down, with request off the r. Then sent off the t in request. Waiting, she added from the n in friend. And still from i as the final touch. She photographed it and added a black and white effect before posting.
    If Scott wasn’t going to respond to her friend request, maybe there would be someone else in the universe who would.

C H A P T E R

    J UST ON THE OTHER SIDE of New Haven, the traffic broke up. Miranda’s phone kept binging, almost in time to the Christmas music they inexplicably start playing on all the radio stations the day before Thanksgiving. Every time someone shared one of Blocked Poet’s sculptures her phone chimed in notification, or as Miranda liked to think, appreciation. Thank you, she said, thank you for making me feel like something I do matters to someone, whoever you are, bluefroggie_2112. She resisted the urge to pick up the phone and look at the recent list.
    She swung into the driveway and almost rear-ended a station wagon. Bumper stickers covered the entire backside of the car. Miranda couldn’t imagine Avery being friends with anyone who wanted to Visualize Whirled Peas or vote for the Green Party. Maybe the housekeeper had a new car.
    She walked through the front door, not knocking, though each time she returned here she felt more and more like she should knock. The blare of some television program from the den hit her; her father, almost deaf, was obviously watching some nature documentary.
    “Avery,” she called out. “I’m home.”
    The house smelled clean like every surface had just met a rag soaked in Lemon Pledge.
    Avery strutted past on the balcony over the foyer, waving with one hand, cell phone clutched in the other.
    With Avery indisposed, Miranda decided to rouse her dad from his television stupor. If he wasn’t at work, he liked to be in front of the television. Financial reports, sports programs, and the occasional crime drama. Typical stuff. Though once or twice, she and Avery had come home early and caught him watching Oprah. Sometimes when he gave her advice like, “you should always let the man call back first” or “never wear a short skirt on a first date,” Miranda and Avery would chide in unison, “Did you learn that on Oprah?” Her father’s rich olive skin would grow pink on the tops of his cheeks and nose, a trait of blushing that both he and Miranda shared.
    “Dad,” she called out, loudly as she entered the den. Walnut bookshelves lined the room; an espresso leather sofa and plush easy chairs circled a massive, sixty-two inch flat screen, Stanton’s only request when Avery redecorated the last time. One room, he said, one room completely arranged to his likes instead of the whim of the latest designer. “A man cave,” she said. “How cliché.” But she told the designer to do it anyway. Though Avery may look every part the wicked, gold-digging stepmother, she had loved Stanton since the first time they had dinner together at a legal conference two years after Louise passed away. It didn’t help that Avery looked much younger than Stanton. For every bit of exercise he avoided, she did double, making their seven-year age difference appear to be fifteen or twenty. After she hit sixty, her hard work really began to show. Their mutual friends got soft in the middle, lost their ability to walk in heels, and started getting their hair cut in very short, manageable dos. Avery instead took up Pilates and started green juicing.
    “Dad,” Miranda called out again, stepping down into the sunken room. The plush carpet mimicked walking on thick grass in a forest. She studied the big screen for a moment. A scene from some nature movie where the female penguin gives the male penguin the egg to keep