Just Friends Read Online Free PDF Page A

crumb-encrusted toaster, yellowing newspapers, the framed New Yorker cartoon Jack loved, which showed a patrician publisher addressing a cowed author: “It’s Dostoevsky, it’s Tolstoy, it’s Fitzgerald—but it doesn’t dance .” She couldn’t find a cup, so she washed one up from the collection of dirty dishes in the sink. Jack was over by the stove, listening intently to Leo. They made an odd pair, the one amiably sloppy, the other as watchful and contained as a cat. She wondered what they were talking about. When the coffee was ready, Jack took the pot around, pushing through the crowd with his big shoulders, joking with everyone. He was wearing a blue shirt hanging out over frayed and faded cut-off jeans and had a joint tucked behind his ear. She couldn’t help smiling. It was good to see him, though she couldn’t tell him so. He was far too bigheaded as it was.
    When he reached her, she leaned back against the counter and held out her cup. “You’re a pig,” she told him, gesturing at the kitchen.
    “I’m busy,” he countered. “My mind is on higher things.”
    “Does that mean the novel’s going well?”
    “A work of art can’t be rushed.”
    “I wouldn’t call three years a rush. How many missed deadlines is it now?” She caught his eye. “Okay, I’ll shut up. Tell me about Leo. I haven’t seen him here before.”
    “That’s because he hasn’t been here. I ran into him a couple weeks ago and told him to drop by if he wanted.”
    Jack looked the tiniest bit shifty. Freya wondered what he was up to. “So, what does Leo do?”
    “He started that magazine, Word , remember?—the one that published my story about the boy in the storm?”
    Freya nodded. “You got fifty dollars, and bought a bicycle.”
    “Yeah, well now he’s a literary agent, really into the big time, doing million-dollar deals.” Jack rubbed a hand backwards through his hair. “He thinks I have talent.”
    “Of course you have talent. I’ve been telling you that for years. You also have an agent. You’re not thinking of leaving Ella after all she’s done for you?”
    “No . . .” Jack said uncertainly, looking put out. He set down the coffeepot and dug his hands into his pockets. “So how’s Mark?” he asked.
    “Michael.”
    “Whatever. Do we gather that he’s let you come out to play tonight?”
    “What kind of a question is that?”
    “Only that we haven’t seen you much since you two have been together.”
    Freya folded her arms defensively and looked him in the eye, saying nothing. The humiliations of the evening flooded back. What a fool she’d been! But she wasn’t about to break down and sob like a soppy girl—especially not in front of Jack.
    “Everything’s just ‘super,’ is it?” he persisted, standing over her with his lazy smile.
    Freya gripped her elbows. “Didn’t ‘y’all’ know that nobody in England has said super since about 1969?”
    “You’re getting awfully snappy in your old age. Poor old Martin was probably happy to get rid of you tonight, so he could settle down with some nice, restful briefs.”
    “Michael.” Freya glared at him. “At least he does a real job. Some people have to earn their living, you know.”
    Jack grinned. “Careful, you’re flaring your nostrils. You look like a very superior camel.”
    “Oh, shut up.” She pushed him out of the way and returned to the card table. She wasn’t in the mood to be teased.
    When they started playing again, her luck changed abruptly. Maybe it was drink or dope, or simply a brute, masculine lust to win kicking in, but the men became more raucous and aggressive. Freya began to feel excluded. Her pile of chips dwindled to nothing; she drew some more from the float and wrote an IOU. She folded early in one hand, and took her cell phone into the hallway to telephone Cat, who would surely be home by now.
    “You have reached Caterina da Fillipo. Please leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to