Been There, Done That Read Online Free PDF Page B

smirked in a way that I hoped was patronizing and said, “My, we’ve gotten deep.”
    He leaned back and laughed, sounding human at last. “You always could cut me down to size.” We both knew the opposite was true but left it at that.
    The slutty waitress brought our drinks. “Know what you want?” she asked.
    “Excuse me?” I frowned, feeling violated.
    “I think she wants to take our order, Kath.” Tim grinned at the waitress. “Unless you’re getting existential with us?” The waitress laughed, even though I’d bet money she didn’t even know what “existential” means.
    Between my nerves and the heat, I wasn’t hungry, but I ordered grilled eggplant and goat cheese on focaccia. The portions here were oversized, and a sandwich would hold up better than a salad in a takeout container and save me from having to make dinner. Tim ordered a burger. Tim always orders a burger. He’s one of those people who honest-to-God doesn’t care about food, and a burger is something he doesn’t have to think about.
    When Tim and I lived together, I prepared pastas with sun-dried tomatoes and buttery sole with lemon. I was a freelancer then, writing for home and cooking magazines. On weekends, I’d invite other couples over for wine tastings or “ethnic food experiences,” and I’d spend entire days tracking down obscure ingredients just so I could put asterisks on my recipes with a notation of, say, “available in east African food markets.” Tim didn’t care much about the food, of course, but he liked having people over, his coworkers especially, but Marcy and Dan, too, and he liked seeing how impressed they were by my creations.
    Now, standing at my kitchen counter, I’d eat Triscuits and port wine cheese spread until my stomach stopped gurgling and call it dinner. Sometimes I’d invite friends over not because I was feeling sociable but just so I’d have an excuse to make real food. I’d double the recipe and fill my fridge with Tupperware-encased leftovers. After four straight nights of, say, lamb paprikash, I would usually shove the rest down the disposal and nuke myself a Lean Cuisine.
    Tim gulped his seltzer. I gulped my wine—the heat made me thirsty—and could practically feel my brain cells keeling over from the shock. He cleared his throat. “After our phone call, you’re probably wondering why I came all the way up here instead of just giving you the details on the phone.”
    That’s when it struck me: here I was, sitting across from my first lover, the man I long assumed I would marry, and we were having a business lunch. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” I said. And it was true: I’d been so nervous about what it would be like to see him again that I hadn’t bothered to wonder about the story he’d alluded to. “I figured you were just up here, anyway,” I said. “Researching that article you mentioned.”
    “It’s bigger than that.” He leaned forward. “I had to see you in person.” He lowered his voice. “This story is huge. I know I don’t have to tell you that this conversation is confidential.”
    “If you know you don’t have to tell me, why are you telling me?”
    “I know I can trust you,” he said.
    I resisted the twenty or so comebacks that jumped in my brain. “I’m listening,” I said.
    The story came from an intern who’d worked for Tim. Deirdre was a climber, he said, always looking for recognition, always expecting to be treated like one of the staff (who, if they were like Tim, had worked years to get to a position in which they could look down on interns). When Tim began covering a story about a politician’s relationship with a call girl, Deirdre kept remarking how the same thing went on at her school, Mercer College. At first, Tim didn’t think much of it. He assumed she was simply referring to the promiscuity and pig-like behavior so prevalent at institutions of higher learning. (He said this almost wistfully, undoubtedly thinking of how