Odds : A Love Story (9781101554357) Read Online Free PDF

wouldn’t I?”
    “I thought it might work like bankruptcy, everything forgiven.”
    “Sorry, some debts you have to pay.”
    “It was worth a try,” he said.
    “Not really.”
    He’d finished her monkfish, leaving a slick of walnut pesto.
    “You want the rest of this?” she asked. “It’s delicious but I’m stuffed.”
    “Ask for a doggie bag. You can have it for a midnight snack.”
    “I don’t think I’m going to be awake then. And I’m definitely not going to be hungry.”
    The waiter returned to clear and to see if he could tempt them with coffee or dessert. No, they were ready to go. They sipped their wine and watched the Falls, the few other couples ranked along the window. She envied them, assuming their lives, though no less complicated, must be happier, at least tonight.
    The waiter came back and wished them a good evening. He hoped they would enjoy their stay.
    “Thank you,” she said when Art had paid the check.
    “Thank American Express.”
    “It was nice.”
    “Good.”
    “I’m sorry I ruined it.”
    “You didn’t ruin it,” he said, subdued, helping her with her chair. He met her when she stood, and kissed her, holding her shoulders, rubbed the tops of her arms as if she were cold. “You’ve never ruined anything, so don’t say you’re sorry, okay?”
    That was all she wanted, for him to fight for her. She was tired of being the wronged wife, the one he’d settled for out of guilt. Wasn’t she worth winning? He’d never been jealous, even when he’d had good reason to be. He couldn’t know what she’d ruined—to no purpose—proving she was still desirable, and her secret seemed monstrous and unfair. She misted up, overwhelmed, and held him.
    “I’m sorry I’m sorry.” Part of it was the wine, and part of it was that she was tired. She’d been angry for so long, she wanted him to feel the same way.
    Standing there, holding her as if they were slow-dancing, Art wished he had the ring. The timing was right, the lights low, the room quiet. He would drop to one knee and offer himself to her. She would open the box and pull him up by his elbows, and the other couples would applaud. They would go upstairs and drink champagne, rechristen each other, giddy as newlyweds, and start fresh tomorrow.
    Instead, on the way out, he grabbed her a peppermint, which she waved off with disgust, saying she’d eaten too much.
    The mall they followed to the lobby was lined with upscale shops in which they were supposed to blow their winnings, though he assumed they were just for show—Tiffany, LouisVuitton, Swarovski, the Havana Tobacconist, even a Bentley dealership, outside of which sat a gleaming fastback, the grand prize in a raffle. Holding his hand, Marion paused at the Prada window to look over some leather coats. The mannequins were eyeless and inscrutable, all sleek cheekbones and pillowy lips. Now that the moment had passed, he wondered what magic words he’d uttered. He’d apologized, told her it was all his fault, but he’d been saying that ever since he confessed. It must have been something before that, but after the Bombay Sapphire and the wine he couldn’t bring back their exact conversation.
    It was common enough for her to bring up the subject on special occasions, as if she’d been waiting for the perfect moment, lobbing it into the middle of her birthday dinner or their anniversary. She had a genius for self-pity that defeated even his. He liked to believe that by act of will and the passage of time he’d gotten beyond thinking of Wendy every day, while Marion, who’d never met her, tended her memory like a widow.
    Being eternally guilty, he was eternally defenseless against her, which fed a resentment he knew he wasn’t entitled to, leaving him nothing with which to counter her anger but impatience and, after so long, exhaustion. Perhaps being sorry for being sorry meant that she knew she needed to let go but couldn’t, out of wifely pride or simple spite. If