Something New Read Online Free Page A

like a great neighborhood.”
    I notice that his eyes are the warm hue of melting chocolate. His hair is a shade lighter. His face is angular but not harsh; his smile gives him the ingratiating look of a faithful puppy. Oh, and his body ain’t bad either. He’s probably in his midforties, but there doesn’t appear to be an ounce of flab on him, and the tight white tee he’s sporting leaves little to the imagination. His six-pack abs are practically bursting through the fabric.
    Perhaps I should feel guilty for doing something that is so closely related to outright, drool-dripping ogling, but I have been married for thirteen years, and during that time I have never strayed. And let me tell you that any married woman who claims she doesn’t assess members of the oppositesex is either blind, a liar, or a closeted lesbian who is using her unknowing husband as a beard.
    I suddenly wonder how awkward it would look for me to remove the sweatshirt from my waist and tie it around my shoulders, like Ally Sheedy did with all of her sweaters in
St. Elmo’s Fire
. And a split second later I am truly ashamed of myself for giving thought to such a ridiculous idea. Besides, who in the new millennium even remembers bad 80s Brat Pack movies, no matter how iconic they were at the time?
    “I saw your car here when we signed the escrow papers last week,” he explains. “I figured you must be a friend of the family.”
    “Cousin,” I reply. I usually don’t speak in clipped, one-word sentences, but I am irrationally worried that Ben Campbell will see the stain on my shirt and immediately put his new house on the market in order to find a home with more suitable neighbors, or at least neighbors who don’t have relatives who are part of the unwashed masses.
    I am perplexed by the visceral reaction I am experiencing just by having this conversation. I assume it is because, at my age, thrills are hard to come by, and talking to a fine man clad in ass-hugging Levi’s certainly counts as a thrill.
    “Cousin, ah,” he says and nods. His eyes dart to my shirt and he sees the strawberry goo. How could he not? It’s right there, just above my right nipple; in fact it’s exactly where my right nipple
would
be if I were twenty-three.
    “I hear the school system is terrific,” he suggests.
    “The best.” At least I have now graduated to two-word sentences. Yay for me.
    “Well.” He sighs good-naturedly. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
    “Definitely,” I reply. Okay, so I’ve reverted back to one-word sentences. At least this particular word has foursyllables. And I can be proud of myself for not stammering or stuttering like a schoolgirl, or breaking out in a cold sweat. And I’m pretty sure I didn’t flinch when I saw him notice the stain. So there’s that.
    I give Ben Campbell props for not looking at me as though I am some kind of mentally challenged nut job. He does quite the opposite, in fact. He flashes me that easygoing smile and gives me a two-finger salute, then strides back toward his property. The four moving guys have emerged from the house empty-handed and Ben Campbell stands for a moment shooting the breeze with them. I pray he is not telling them about the wacko he just had the displeasure of meeting, the one with the bright red stain on her boob who also happens to be conversationally challenged. But I will never find out. Because I hop into my car with as much agility as an almost-forty-three-year-old woman can muster, crank the key into the ignition, and speed away with my composure, if not my dignity, intact.

•   Three   •
    T hursdays for the Ivers children are jam-packed with activities, and adhering to their schedule requires tactical and strategic planning worthy of a SWAT team. From the moment school ends at two thirty, it becomes a mad dash to get all three of them where they need to be, on time and appropriately dressed. Connor, who is twelve, has baseball at three fifteen. Matthew has soccer