Been There, Done That Read Online Free PDF

so I could take his lead in the whole alcoholic/nonalcoholic game. But he nodded to me, and I boldly ordered a white wine, in the hope in would neutralize some of my adrenaline. Perhaps the nymphet waitress would card me and Tim could say something like, “You really do look amazing.” But all the waitress said was, “We’re out of chardonnay. White zinfandel okay?” She scratched her thigh with her pen in a way that I found inappropriate. I said yes to the wine even though I detest white zinfandel. Tim ordered a seltzer. I felt like a lush.
    “How’ve you been?” he asked.
    “Good,” I answered. “Busy,” I lied. I was clutching the sides of the wrought iron chair. I casually picked my cloth napkin off the table and smoothed it on my lap, wiping the sweat off my palms as I did so.
    “You see Marcy much?” A busboy appeared to pour water, and Tim glanced up with an easy smile. Damn it—he looked genuinely calm.
    “Pretty often. She’s pregnant again.”
    “Wow.” His eyebrows shot up. “How many does she have?”
    “Two. Both boys. She’s hoping for a girl.”
    He smiled and rolled his eyes as if to say, Reproduction: yuck! “And Dan? Still a workaholic?”
    I grinned. In college and afterwards, we’d snickered at “straight-arrow Dan and his ten-year plan.” Tim and I never had a plan, which I once thought was a good thing. “He’s close to making partner,” I said. “So he’s working around the clock. Marcy never sees him.”
    “She’s gotten pregnant three times, though,” he said. “So I guess they’re still having sex Tuesdays, Fridays, and alternate Sunday mornings.”
    “They had to drop the Sundays,” I said. “The kids get up too early.” I felt a twinge of guilt for ratting out my best friend’s secrets, but I’d always assumed Marcy and Dan whispered about Tim and me, too. When Tim walked out three years ago (a week after my twenty-ninth birthday), I called Marcy immediately, expecting her to be shocked. I longed for her to tell me it was just a phase, that he’d be back. Instead, she was quiet for a moment before finally saying, “He’s not good enough for you, honey. He never was.”
    “Tell me about your job,” Tim said, tantalizing me with the possibility that maybe he did care, just a little.
    “I’m the education editor,” I said. He knew that already, but it sounded impressive, so I wanted to reiterate. “The scope is daunting,” I intoned, figuring that sounded better than “paralyzing.” “But I enjoy the challenge.” A total lie, of course, but I was working my way into Empowered Woman Mode, if only for the hour. I rattled on about lowered educational standards and societal responsibility and the scope of my job.
    I paused for a moment when I realized that even I was no longer listening to my drivel. A drop of sweat slithered down my back. I looked at Tim, his intense gaze, his stiff shoulders. He was listening. For years, he had loved me—at least in his own way—and he knew me as well as anyone. For an instant, I considered spilling it: how I didn’t give a damn about magnet schools or teacher testing or corporate sponsorships for underprivileged students; how my mind still wandered to tumbled-marble bathroom accents and gleaming maple floors.
    But I waited too long, and he filled the silence with proclamations about his own job and the social and political force of New Nation . And then, after talking for a while like a normal person, he said, “With the unprecedented dissemination of information, society is being shaped by the media beyond its own will. So we have a choice. We can either help mold the collective consciousness or we can remain passive and allow our opinions to be shaped according to someone else’s agenda.” I experienced a rare flash of superiority, knowing full well that I had outscored Tim on the verbal SAT. Then I grew despondent. Somehow, it wasn’t the time to start chattering about Ralph Lauren paints. Instead, I