Anyone But You

“No,” Charity said patiently. “I’m going to talk you into jumping your infant neighbor. If he’s not married.”

“He’s not,” Nina said, slumping a little. “At least there was no ring, and he didn’t mention a wife.”

Charity snorted.

Nina gave her a severe look. “And you’re not talking me into anything anyway, so just drop it.”

“Is he cute?” Charity asked. “What does he do for a living?”

The image of Alex lounging at her table, broad-shouldered and confident, came to mind, but Nina evicted it at once. “Yes, he’s cute. I have no idea what he does for a living. Probably something involving a small hat and French-fry oil. He doesn’t look too focused.”

“That’s wonderful.” Charity sat back, so enthused she fed Fred a potato chip. Fred ate it cautiously since it wasn’t a pretzel. “This is great. Make him your toy boy. If he’s got some kind of McJob, you won’t end up being a corporate wife, and since he’s young, he’ll still be interested in sex. This is perfect.”

Nina glared at her because the thought was so tempting. “It is not perfect. I’m not dating somebody who’s fifteen years younger than I am. I’m not dating again at all, I like being free and not having to go to stupid dinners and dress up for somebody else’s career, but if I was going to start dating again, it would not be this guy.” She thought again of Alex, loose-limbed and long-fingered in her doorway and way, way too young for her. If she started dating him or, dear God, sleeping with him—she swallowed at the thought—people would say she was in her second childhood. People would look at them on the street and wonder what he saw in her. Guy would sneer. Her mother would roll her eyes. His friends would make jokes about Oedipus Alex. She’d be obsessing over thinning pubic hair, and he’d be playing air guitar.

Worst of all, if she slept with him, she’d have to take off her clothes and her mother was right: her body was forty years old. The whole idea was impossible.

And he wasn’t interested in her, anyway. Just what she needed, to start fantasizing about a man who thought of her as a mother figure and who just by existing would make her feel older than she already did. She’d end up literally working her butt off to try to look younger than she was instead of enjoying the freedom she had now. “It would be too humiliating,” she finished. “Not Alex. Anyone but Alex.”

Charity grinned. “Why not? He’s never seen your pubic hair before. He won’t notice the thinning.”

Nina sighed. “And to think you’re my best friend.”

“Damn right, chickie,” Charity said, going back to the chips. “That’s why I’m giving you this great advice. Break the kid’s heart. He needs it for the growth experience, and it’ll make you feel so much better about the divorce. Trust Aunt Charity. When it comes to romance, she knows. Besides, it’ll make Guy crazy.”

Nina shook her head and changed the subject before Charity talked her into something stupid. “Forget Guy. My real problems are not with Guy or the infant downstairs, they’re with Jessica.”

Charity tilted her head in sympathy. “Poor baby. Is this that boring book you told me about?”

Nina nodded. “Some upper-class twit’s prep-school memoirs. I thought the rich were supposed to be depraved, but this guy never even short-sheeted a bed. It is the most tedious stuff I’ve ever waded through.”

Charity picked up her shake and stirred it with her straw. “Seems to me, the idea behind a memoir is to have something to remember.”

“Not if you’re rich,” Nina said.

Charity leaned back, thoughtful. “Now, I could write a hell of a memoir. When I think of the trauma I’ve lived through—” She shook her head in self-amazement and slurped up some milk shake.

Nina snorted. “I should have you ghostwrite this book for this guy. Graft some of your sex life onto his non-life.”

“I should write my own book,” Charity said. “It’s about time I had a career instead of a past.”

Nina smiled and fed Fred a chip. That would be one hell of a book: Charity’s life between covers, one disaster after another, described the way Charity had described it to her over the years.

Nina stopped smiling. It would be one hell of a book. She looked at Charity. “You’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Charity said. “So why aren’t I rich and married and getting great sex nightly?”

Nina leaned forward. “Can you write, Charity?”

Charity looked at her, annoyed. “Of course I can write. I can read, too.”

“No.” Nina grabbed her arm to get her attention. “I mean, can you write? Prose. Could you write a book?”

Charity blinked at her. “A book?”

“Your memoirs.” Nina leaned closer. “I know your breakups must have been awful at the time, at all the times, but you’re really funny when you talk about them. Could you write a funny, sexy book about your past love life?”