If You Were Here Read Online Free PDF Page A

pulled the trigger. As a lawyer, she should have realized earlier that papers mattered. Papers created rights and responsibilities. Papers defined families.
    Today, she couldn’t imagine a world in which she wasn’t married to Patrick Jordan, but that morning she and Patrick were just beginning to enjoy their new spousal titles. She’d shaken her head and pursed her lips like a stubborn child refusing a floret of broccoli. “But I would never stray from my husband,” she’d said in a Scarlett O’Hara voice. “Not even with a battery-operated bunny.”
    The pink toy was from Emily and Glenn. McKenna could barely imagine reserved, preppy Emily perusing the aisles of a tawdry adults-only shop.
    McKenna and Patrick hadn’t wanted a wedding. Just a couple of rings, a few nice words, and a great party. No walking down the aisle. No puffy dresses. No white tulle vomit. And no gifts.
    As a pile of wrapped packages accumulated in the corner of their private dining room at Buddakan, they’d realized that their friends hadn’t complied with the request. “What part of ‘no gifts’ do our friends not understand?” Patrick whispered. “There better not be a toaster oven in there. Where in the world would we put a toaster oven?”
    As it turned out, their friends may not have obeyed the stern no-gifts admonition, but they’d known better than to clutter the overstuffed apartment with nonsense like crystal vases and bread makers. Instead, they had conspired to find the tackiest gag gifts imaginable.
    The rabbit wasn’t the only X-rated toy. There were the his-and-her G-strings. The bubblegum-flavored massage oil. The “just married” condoms. Especially creative: the pasta shaped like boy parts.
    That Sunday morning, their two-day anniversary, Patrick and McKenna were showing their gratitude in a similar spirit, giddily opening the presents while sipping champagne and taking turns writing ironic thank-you notes. Dearest Emily and Glenn , McKenna had written. Thank you so very much for the delightful personal massager. Its rabbit-like shape is at once both whimsical and bold. We would be remiss, however, if we did not ask: where is our fucking tea set? Lovingly, McKenna and Patrick.
    McKenna had saved a special present to give to Patrick last. She reached over the edge of the sofa and lifted a shoebox-sized gift from the floor. “The final one.”
    “Feels pretty hefty,” he said. “If it’s another one of those”—he gestured toward the personal massager—“you’re going to be walking funny for a week.”
    “This one is for the husband from the wife.”
    He tore away the elegant white-and-silver wrapping paper, opened the box, and removed a tight mass of bubble wrap. Beneath the transparent layers, the shape of a glass beer mug was visible.
    “Is this like when Homer Simpson gave Marge a bowling ball for her birthday?”
    McKenna was the beer drinker in their household. Patrick was strictly a Scotch and wine man.
    He placed the beer stein on the coffee table. Pint-size. Thick handle. A shield insignia on the side, embossed with Westvleteren, the manufacturer of a Belgian Trappist beer.
    “So what gives?”
    For the first time, McKenna told Patrick about the night she and Susan wound up with that mug. And then she felt guilty for not thinking more often about Susan over the years. And then she cried. And then she apologized for ruining the last day of their wedding weekend with silly drama. Then she blamed it on too much champagne.
    That was five years ago. How could she have gone five years without thinking about Susan?
    Susan and that stupid mug. The night McKenna met Patrick. The year Susan left. The year her job fell apart. The stories all belonged together.
    She heard once that a novel was really a collection of fifty to seventy scenes that could be woven together at the author’s will. The agent wanted McKenna’s book about the Marcus Jones case to read like a novel.
    She opened a file on her computer