The Next Best Thing. Kristan Higgins

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      “Okay. I’ll try it on. Spanx, huh?” I ask. “It looks evil.”

      “Don’t be a sissy,” Parker says. “Honestly, you’re such a weenie, Lucy.”

      “I think you’re perfect,” Corinne murmurs automatically.

      “Help me get this on, then,” I say, bravely pulling the undergarment over one toe. My circulation is instantly impaired, and I wiggle my toes to make sure I still can. I tug. The Spanx doesn’t budge. “Jeez, Parker! It’s like putting on a garden hose.”

      Parker comes over and grabs, yanking so hard I stagger back. “Work with me!” Parker laughs. We try again. The Spanx advances to my calf. Parker gives another savage tug, and I fall into the wall. Corinne laughs merrily, then gasps as Emma pops off.

      “We need a couple of firemen, that’s all,” Parker grunts, frowning at the evil Spanx.

      “I’d rather set fire to my kitchen,” I say. “This can’t be right, Parker. It doesn’t fit.”

      “It does! Trust me, once it’s on, you’ll love how you look. The men will be salivating. You’ll definitely find someone tonight.”

      My sister, both huge breasts now fully exposed, smiles. “So where are you two heading?” she asks.

      I can’t answer, as Parker has managed to get the Spanx up to my midriff and all breathing is cut off. “A singles thing,” my friend answers.

      Corinne shoots me a wary glance. “Singles thing? Oh, dear. Christopher might know someone. I’ll ask.” Emma fusses, and my sister, looking as if she’s about to be executed, shifts her to the other breast. Parker and I quickly avert our eyes as the baby, who apparently has razor blades in place of gums, latches on. Corinne whimpers, then assures the baby that she’s deeply loved.

      One more savage yank, and the Spanx is in place. My left leg is asleep, as I imagine the femoral artery was cut off when the Spanx grabbed onto my thigh like a furious pit bull.

      “How’s that?” Parker asks.

      “Get it off me,” I wheeze. “I’m serious, Parker.”

      “Chris, hi, honey!” Corinne squeaks from behind us. “How are you, hon?” She listens for a second, then shifts the phone away from her face. “He’s fine,” she informs us.

      “I’ll stop the prayer vigil, then,” Parker murmurs, yanking the Spanx back down.

      I dig in the back of the closet and find some jeans that aren’t too painful and vow to limit my Twinkie consumption to two per day.

      “Okay, we’re off,” I say to my sister. “Lock up when you’re done.”

      “Have a great time!” Corinne says, looking just a little lonely. “I’m sure you’ll have so much fun.”

      If “fun” means feeling somewhat like I’m a prisoner of war, then yes, I guess you could say I’m having fun. Not to be a bad sport or anything. Parker may have been having fun in the more traditional sense of the word, but personally, I’m wondering when the Coalition of the Willing plans to free me.

      “Yes!” The man in front of me smiles. A man who smells like Aunt Iris’s cellar, dank and moldering. His eye twitch doesn’t advance the cause, either, I’m afraid. Neither does that belch he just barely suppressed. Gah!

      “No,” I say as gently as possible. “Thanks, though. I’m sure you’re very nice. But…no. It’s nothing personal. I’m a widow, see, it’s just—”

      “Change!” Lemminglike, I step left, my need to make everyone happy mercifully cut off. The next man is extremely thin with a desperate, hungry look about his red—rimmed eyes. “Yes,” he says.

      “No. Sorry. It’s not you. It’s me. I’m a widow. No one will ever measure up, you understand. Good luck, though.”

      “Jesus Christ, Lucy,” Parker mutters next to me, then eyeballs the guy in front of her. “Yes.”

      It cost seventy—five dollars to get into LoveLines tonight. Well, it cost Parker a hundred and fifty dollars to get in tonight, as she paid for my admission. For that sum, we stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder with about forty other women. Facing us is the men’s line. Every ten seconds, we take a step left. The idea is to see if there’s instant chemistry. Simply put, you look at each other and say only “yes” or “no.” If each of you says yes, you exchange cards and, in the next phase of LoveLines, meet for a ten—minute chat. If one or both of you says no, you simply move on.

      I had no idea ten seconds could last so long. I quickly learn to hesitate as if torn, then drop my “no” at the last possible second, so as to minimize the hurt feelings.

      So far, Parker has seventeen cards. I have none. “Stop saying no,” Parker hisses. “You’re standing there, arms crossed, big, sad eyes, looking like an orphan.”

      “Prisoner of war, I was thinking.”

      “I thought you wanted to find someone,” she says. “You don’t have to marry them, for God’s sake. Just say yes. The next guy is pretty cute. Say yes to him.”

      “Change!” bellows the moderator. Like members of a chain gang, we all shuffle sideways, advancing to the next man. Parker’s right, I need to try. It just seems so…impossible. So stupid, also. Is this what dating is like in your thirties? As always, I’m grateful for Jimmy, the adorable way we met, that long, heart—squeezing, life—changing moment in Gianni’s kitchen. Good old Ethan, knowing I’d like his big brother.

      I take a breath and smile gamely at the person in front of me. Average—looking, blond, brown eyes. Be brave, angel, I imagine Jimmy saying. What the heck. I smile, trying not to look like Oliver Twist.

      “Yes,” I say.

      “No,” he replies.

      “Change!”

      By the end of the Chain Gang Shuffle, I have collected four cards; Parker, twenty—one. We women go to our designated tables and sit, waiting for our suitors to visit.

      My first Yes is just what the doctor ordered. He’s rather bland but wears a nice suit. He has a serious, thoughtful face that bodes well for commitment and wise choices, unlike (for example) Ethan’s devilish eyebrows and delicious smile. Even his tie bespeaks stability. Navy blue, no pattern, very unthreatening. The kind of tie an accountant might wear.

      “Hello,” I say as he sits down. “I’m Lucy Mirabelli.”

      “Hi,” he replies. “I’m Todd Smith.” Perfect. A nice boring name. Todd Smith simply could not be a dangerous man, not with a name and a tie like that.

      “What do you do for a living, Todd?” I ask.

      “I’m an accountant.”

      My smiles grows more genuine. “I’m a baker,” I say.

      “Interesting.”

      “Mmm,” I murmur. “Yup.” СКАЧАТЬ