I lower my voice and try, like a ventriloquist, to not move my mouth. “But I thought we weren’t going to talk about the legal stuff in front of him. So why don’t we discuss it another time, since I need to get ready for Letterman anyway.”
I hug Ethan, zip up his coat, and plant a kiss on his forehead. Then I tell him I love him, and I say good-bye, keeping the transition as drama-free as possible for his sake.
I sit down in the café and absently flip through my book of kisses, watching through the window as Ethan and his dad walk down the street. My heart feels heavy for a moment as the two of them cross the block, hand in hand, then leave my line of sight. I miss the days when we were a threesome, when we’d both hold one of Ethan’s hands and the three of us would walk down the street together. I miss the quiet normalcy of being a family. Now we are just another divorcing couple in New York City, just another man and woman whose vows were nixed, just another pair of exes living separate lives.
Sometimes, when I feel dark and moody, when I get cynical and jaded, I wish we would fight like a regular old divorcing man and woman. I wish we could lob insults and invectives at each other with vigorous abandon. Then I can cue up Nine Inch Nails’s “Pretty Hate Machine” or Poe’s “Angry Johnny” and stomp around the house and throw things. But like now, like always, I’d stand there yelling too much, feeling too much, the only one with any emotions for the other.
The way it had always been.
I close the book of kisses. I’m not in the mood anymore. Besides, I have Letterman and a show tonight, so I pull my bag up on my shoulder, button my coat, and leave the bookstore. I glance at my watch. I have two hours to walk home, change, and grab a cab to David Letterman’s theater on Broadway. My phone vibrates and then I hear Kelly’s specialized ring tone—my phone plays “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” by Cyndi Lauper when she calls. The song is so retro it’s beyond retro, but it’s one of the few tunes that can match Kelly’s energy level. Maybe she can eject me from my Aidan-induced funk.
“Jane Black!”
“Kickin’ Kelly!”
“I have to tell you something!” Nearly everything Kelly says ends with an exclamation point. Her perkiness is infectious. Talking to her makes me want to break out in show tunes sometimes. “I have a new accountant and he’s so cute!”
“Do tell.”
“I just met him and he is adorable. Green eyes, dark blond hair, nice body. He wears the kind of clothes that Henry Cavill wears on the red carpet.”
“Clothes that aren’t tight, but clearly demonstrate he has a rocking body?”
“You know it, girl! I might just need to have him review all my accounts. He is that cute!”
Then I hear a singsong voice in the background. “Mommy, I am going to tell Daddy you said the accountant is cute.”
“Where are you, Kel?”
“In a cab. Just picked up Sophie.” Then she says to Sophie, “You are not to tell Daddy I just said that. Do you understand me, missy?”
“Maybe if you get me a cookie, I won’t tell,” I hear Sophie offer.
“Done.” Then back to me, “What can I say? She’s a good negotiator. So listen, my sweets. You know how I have that little celebrity gossip fetish?”
“Yeah.”
“I picked up Star Magazine and the picture of you is amazingly hot. I want to show it to you. Are you nearby?”
“Lexington and Twenty-Eighth.”
“We’re on Second and Twenty-Third. Stay there. We’ll pick you up on the southeast corner.”
Four minutes later, Kelly pushes open the door to her cab and I scoot inside.
“See? The photo is incredible.” Kelly flips the magazine to the picture of me accepting my Grammy. My hair did look good that night and I have a massive smile on my face. Maybe both Jeremy and Kelly are right—there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Then I see the headline:
“Under Her Nose”
I glance at Kelly and then at Sophie, who waves to me. “Hi, Jane. My mommy has a crush on her accountant, but I’m not going to tell Daddy since she’s getting me a cookie.”
“Sounds like a fair deal.”
I read the article.
Jane Black may have a Grammy but she doesn’t have g*y-dar. Somehow, the songstress failed to notice for five-plus years that her husband preferred, how shall we say, not the fairer gender. Maybe she turned a blind eye to hubby’s interest in boys; after all, the former Mr. Jane Black bears a striking resemblance to Hollywood hottie Chris Pine. “I desperately wanted my marriage to work,” Black said in an exclusive interview with Star Magazine. Who wouldn’t want to keep Chris’s twin around!
I stare at Kelly, stunned. “At least the picture is good,” she repeats. “I mean, you look amazing. That’s all people are going to remember anyway. Half the people who buy this can’t even read.”
I don’t even know what to say. Jayden tricked me with the whole my sister had a g*y boyfriend, too ruse, then he twisted my words; he mocked me. I followed Matthew’s advice to be myself. I dropped any canned facade. And here I am again, the butt of the joke. Matthew’s wrong, Jeremy’s wrong, and I’m wrong too in thinking doing a story with Matthew would be anything but a big mistake.
I fish my cell phone from my bag and call his cell.
“Matthew here,” he answers.
“Hi, it’s Jane Black.”