Love Stories in This Town Read Online Free PDF Page A

had wanted butter twill.
    “Did you see the country kitchen?” asked Joe. “How about the master suite?” He seemed overly excited.
    The master suite had pictures of Chicago sports teams all over one wall. A wedding photo featured a blonde with a dazzling smile. The husband was not such a looker, but hey. Someone was reading Who Moved My Cheese? in bed. The other one was reading Star .
    Greg was in the yard, under a sign that said MARGARITAVILLE!
    “I hate it,” I said.
    “Oh,” he said, “okay.” We moved toward the minivan.
    As we drove to another house, Joe chatted with himself. “Silly flooring choices,” he said, and “tiles from the wrong period.” He turned on Treasure Cove Drive and stopped in front of a faux Victorian. “Right,” he said, running a hand through his hair. He told us the price of the house, which was one hundred thousand more dollars than we could afford, even with the handcuffs.
    I looked back at Greg, who shrugged. He was wearing a light blue shirt I had sewn for him—it was the color of his eyes. He had a fresh haircut, and looked weary but optimistic.
    My brother, Adam, a devotee of HGTV, would have loved the house on Treasure Cove. It was solid brick—so unlike the house we had grown up in, which shook during Georgia thunderstorms—and had a media room with a wet bar and a giant deck for entertaining.
    I was feeling woozy and dreamy. In a stranger's bathroom, I changed my Maxi Pad. The bathroom had a Jacuzzi tub. I wrapped the old pad in toilet paper and stuck it in my pocket. My blood—which had cushioned the mass of cells— dripped into the toilet bowl. In the tub, someone had lit berry-scented candles. I began to feel ill. I took a few breaths, then composed myself and joined my husband, who was admiring the skylight above the bed. A stitched pillow proclaimed THE STARS ARE BRIGHT IN TEXAS. It was a mass-produced piece of junk. Perhaps no one had the time to hand-stitch in Houston. Perhaps no one had a motto worth hand-stitching. THE HOUSES ARE BIG IN TEXAS, I thought. THE HAIR IS BLOND IN TEXAS. WHAT AM I DOING IN TEXAS?
    In the minivan, I said I was too tired to trek around anymore. “Sweetie,” said Greg, “we only have this weekend. …”
    “How about a Diet Dr Pepper?” suggested Joe. “Got a twelve-pack in the cooler.”
    My empty womb was starting to cramp. “I just don't feel so well,” I said. “I'm on antibiotics.”
    Joe smoothly put the car in gear. He talked about strep throat, how he always used to get strep throat as a kid, always taking antibiotics.
    “Let's hit a few more houses,” said my husband. “Kimmy, you rest in the car. I'll let you know if anything's amazing.” The doctor had suggested we cancel the trip, but I had already covered my shifts, and I wanted so much to fly somewhere new, somewhere else, and buy a home. Our apartment was grimy, despite the curtains I had made from vintage fabric. The previous tenants had left old pots and pans; there was even a towel in the bathroom that said RANDY.
    “You'll be completely wiped out after the procedure,” the doctor had said, as I lay on a gurney, an IV in my arm. I was given an anti-nauseal called Regulan.
    “I feel a bit weird already,” I said.
    “Hm,” said the doctor, leaning in. I was her first operation of the day: I could smell the hair dryer and Aqua Net. “Do you feel anxious, jittery, like you want to jump off the table?”
    “I do.”
    “It's the Regulan,” said the doctor, matter-of-factly. But I was also about to go into surgery, to have what was left of my baby scraped out. We had prematurely named the baby Madeline or Greg Junior.
    “You'll be in la la land in a sec anyway,” said the doctor.
    She was right. The next thing I knew, a nurse said, “It's all over. Now don't forget Doc's instructions.”
    She pulled back a white curtain, and there was Greg, his eyes red. “Mouse,” he said, and he tried to smile.
    The nurse continued, “Dr. O'Brien told you the