Something New Read Online Free

chapters of said novel are, at this moment, lying in the bottom of a box on the uppermost shelf of my attic, collecting dust and feeding mice.
    “I haven’t written anything since Connor was born,” I say.
    “I know. And I just can’t understand why.”
    “I’m busy!” Defensiveness creeps into my tone because I know what Jill is thinking. She’s thinking exactly what I’m thinking. Busy with
what
?
    “Look, when your kids were little, yeah, okay. But they’re all in school now. I know you can carve out some time for this. A few hours a day is all you’d need.”
    “I’m busy reinventing myself,” I blurt out before I can slap my hand over my mouth.
    Jill is silent for a full ten seconds, regarding me as though I am a new and interesting species of insect—fascinating to look at for a moment, but almost certainly about to be squashed.
    “And what, pray tell, does that mean?” she asks.
    I shrug noncommittally. “I’m just taking some time to reassess my life and make some positive changes.”
    “Like wearing T-shirts that don’t have stains on them?”
    I look down at my white peace-sign shirt. Sure enough, there is a tear-shaped drop of strawberry-colored goo just above my right breast. Perhaps I should have put the sweatshirt on instead of wrapping it around my waist. But then, what would I have done about the hole? I guess I could have walked
backward
into Jill’s house.
    “Yeah. Like that,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.
    “Pop-Tarts?” she asks, and I nod. “Frosted or unfrosted?”
    “Frosted,” I reply, and it’s her turn to nod.
    “So, how’s this reinvention thing working out so far?”
    I agree to take the
Ladies Living-Well Journal
with me because I know that Jill will pout and moan if I don’t. She basks in small victories, and I haven’t the heart to deprive her of this one. I tell her that I will think about it, to which she replies that I really ought to do more than
think
about it. I am a wonderful writer, she tells me. And getting back to the computer will fit right in with my resolution to improve myself. This is something just for me, she says. Perhaps she is right. And I will look at the article. If not today, then tomorrow. Or over the weekend, between soccer and T-ball. Or between Jessie’s costume fitting for the school play and Matthew’s science project. Or after I finish the ten thousand other chores I’ve racked up. Oh, who am I kidding? I might as well dump the magazine in Jill’s recycling bin on the way to my car.
    But I don’t. I cheerfully hug my cousin and make my way down the path to my Flex. As I shove the key into the door lock, I see movement in my peripheral vision and automatically assume that it’s one of the movers. But when I look up, I see a handsome man dressed in faded jeans and a white T-shirt heading in my direction. He waves and smiles, and Isee the laugh lines etched into the corners of his eyes—because men, no matter what their age, have laugh lines, not crow’s feet (totally unfair, but what can you do?)—and a smattering of gray hair in his closely cropped sideburns.
    “Hey there,” he says.
    “Hi.” I pull open the door, toss the magazine onto the passenger seat, then internally argue with myself as to what to do next. Jump into the car and speed off like a wheel man for a bank job, or just stand there like an idiot with the car door open? And as I struggle to make this decision, I realize that I haven’t had a conversation with an attractive stranger in a very long time. And as this realization dawns, I am suddenly frantic to hide the Pop-Tart stain on my shirt.
    “I’m Ben Campbell,” he offers, sidling up to my Flex. “My family just moved in next door.”
    “Oh,” I say. I desperately want to cross my arms over my chest, but I don’t want to come across as closed off or aloof, which, according to Dr. Phil, is exactly the impression that this particular gesture suggests.
    “Yeah,” he says. “It seems