I'm Your Man Read Online Free PDF

with Sydney, my alleged friend, behind my back. And you stayed with that hag just to look good to all your dumb jock buddies and frat brothers.”
    â€œI did not,” I protested. “And Sydney isn’t a hag.” Sheila stared at me with a bemused expression for a second, and we both burst out laughing. “Okay,” I gave in. “Sydney’s a bitch, but she’s not a hag.”
    â€œYou say tomato, I say tomahto.”
    â€œIt’s best that we don’t speak of the extortionist,” I said, using my favorite pet name for my ex-wife.
    â€œYou’re the one who lets her get away with it,” Sheila said. “I can’t believe you fronted her the money for that gallery. As if she’d recognize a decent painting if one landed on her perfectly coifed little head.”
    I closed my eyes, wishing I could shut out the memory of Sydney and her paintings, about which the kindest description might be “uniquely atrocious.” Sydney had started out doing the standard novice’s still lifes. Bowls of fruit, flowers in a vase, sheet music resting atop a grand piano, next to a violin, in front of a picture window, beyond which could be seen a well-manicured lawn. It was what our friend Blythe called “Junior League Art,” after all the women who took an art class between shuffling kids to soccer and raising money for charity.
    Then one night the accident occurred. In the middle of a fight with me about the Lady in Red campaign—Sydney was positive I was having an affair with the model because our marital bed was hardly blissful and rarely busy—she flung a bottle of Allure’s Ruby Red nail polish at me. It shattered on a canvas of marigolds, the glass sticking in the paint, and art was born. Sydney liked to give interviews in which she said she was challenging a patriarchal society’s view of beauty in its traditional forms. It was all bullshit, but somehow it launched a career for her.
    Unfortunately, that career didn’t come with enough money to keep Sydney away from my bank account, even after our divorce. She was determined not to slither back under the thumb of her wealthy, domineering father, and I was easily intimidated by her, especially after she learned “Blaine’s little secret,” as she liked to call my homosexuality.
    Sydney’s manipulations were like a well-executed marketing campaign, and her slogan was, “Knowledge is power.” Unoriginal, much like Sydney, but effective, since I’d spent so many years successfully selling the product that was Blaine Dunhill: scion of a prominent Eau Claire businessman, hero of the gridiron in my youth, the golden boy who was going places. If Sydney exposed my secrets, my trophies and awards would be yanked from the shelves faster than a tainted batch of Tylenol. Daniel’s slogan for the quandary was, “The truth shall set you free.” Unfortunately, that clashed with my golden-boy catchphrase, “What you don’t know won’t hurt you.” Even if I could face a fall from grace in Eau Claire, there was still my family to consider. The truth would probably finish what remained of my relationship with my parents after my divorce.
    I opened my eyes again when I heard our flight attendant say, “Here are your—”
    Just then we encountered turbulence and the plane began shuddering violently. I watched as the flight attendant stumbled and our drinks flew out of his hands and onto the woman across the aisle. She woke up with a yelp when the ginger ale and ice covered her lap, then she screamed in alarm as the Bloody Mary oozed over her head.
    â€œLadies and gentleman, this is your captain speaking. We’ve run into some turbulence. Please buckle your seat belts and refrain from moving about the cabin.”
    â€œNow he tells us,” I said.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” our flight attendant whimpered, while the saturated woman ignored