The First Husband Read Online Free PDF Page A

who . . .” Her eyes went wide, something occurring to her. “Stopped wearing his nerdy-guy glasses.”
    “So?” I said.
    “So, I should’ve known something was going on when he started wearing those contact lenses. How did I miss it?” She shook her head. “It’s like he took his brain off when he took those glasses off. It’s all very Piggy in Lord of the Flies. ”
    I looked at her, confused. “Piggy’s glasses were broken, I think.”
    She waved me off. “You’re missing the point,” she said.
    “Which is what?”
    “That Nick loves you. He loves you so much that I can guarantee nothing real is going to happen with Pearl. But men can forget. If too much time goes by, they can forget what they have. How much they want what they have. And you shouldn’t suffer while he remembers. I won’t allow it.” She paused. “Besides, the sooner you aren’t, the sooner he’ll be back. That’s the way it works.”
    That part I couldn’t help but agree with. It seemed to me that the universe was tricky that way—as soon as you didn’t need something as badly, as soon as you hold onto the hope of it less tightly, you get a second shot at it.
    I put my forehead against hers. “I love you,” I said. “In case you didn’t know.”
    “So come to Venice with me. And, just this once, let someone be the one that takes care of you.”
    “Your brother says he has been,” I said. “Too much.”
    She sighed. “I really wish you’d stop referring to him that way.”
    I smiled. “I’ll think about coming,” I said. “I really will.”
    “No you won’t.”
    “Maybe not.” I said. “But no more doomsday talking, okay? I promise you, I’ll be fine . Look at me. I am fine. And to prove it, this time tomorrow I begin again. What’s five years, anyway? Forget tomorrow. Tonight, I head outside and rejoin the world. I already have plans. Big ones. . . .”
    She sat back in her chair. “My God, you’re a terrible liar,” she said. “It’s amazing to watch, actually.”
    “Where did I lose you? The I-already-have-plans bit?”
    She grabbed my pinky, giving it a tight squeeze.
    “Yeah, that part could have used some work,” she said. “Plus, your purple tank top is inside out.”

3
    A fter Jordan left that night, I cried myself to sleep.
    This was what I was up against: five Christmases and five New Years, ten birthdays, and every Thanksgiving. Six cross-country trips, three half-country ones, three movie sets, one ten-year college reunion. Two trips to the hospital for food poisoning, one car accident in Mexico, three broken bones, one appendicitis. Five grandparents’ (and step-grandparents’) deaths. Valentine’s Day in Hong Kong, Valentine’s Day in New York City, Valentine’s Day barely speaking to each other in the same house. His sister’s wedding, two of my mother’s divorces, four mutual godchildren, one angel of a chocolate Labrador retriever. A shared language, a shared family, a shared future plan to travel the world together. Two weeks on a terrible houseboat near Lake Michigan, the last night when he gave me a locket anyway, four small words on the back, as if they made perfect sense: For you, for always. Not one day when we didn’t talk, even if it was to argue. Not one night when I didn’t say good night, even if I didn’t mean it. Not one morning when the first thing I didn’t think was, You.
    Then I woke up in the middle of the night, remembering something else. I remembered a trip we took toward the beginning of our relationship, six months in, when we went to Utah for a long weekend. The first night we were there, we were staying at an old rustic cabin outside Moab, right outside town, and before we went to sleep, I said, “How is this so easy?”
    “We should enjoy it while it lasts,” Nick said. “I’m guessing it won’t always be this easy . . .”
    I must have looked distraught. He tried to rectify it immediately—moving closer to me, comforting me by saying he