The Night I Got Lucky Read Online Free PDF Page B

and our parents had given us weird names.
    “Bil y’s not so bad,” Chris had said. “Think about my middle name. I mean Marlowe, for Christ’s sake. It’s so pompous, but it real y means something to them. If you meet my parents, don’t ask them about it. They wil never shut up.”
    I smiled, wondering if he real y thought I’d meet his parents one day. “Wel , if you ever meet my sisters, don’t chal enge them to anything. They’re fiercely competitive, and they play to win.” I told him about my previous boyfriend, a guy named Walter with the ghastly nickname of Wat, who made the mistake of tel ing Dustin that he was an ace chess player. The two times they met each other, Dustin and Wat huddled over the chessboard. And both times she won.
    Chris and I talked al about our families, barely noticing Tess and Tim, who sat across the table with pleased smiles. When we left the restaurant, he walked me the eight blocks home, even though it was the opposite direction of his place.
    It was seamless. It was as if we were dating right from that night. I loved his big hands, his tal lanky body. I loved how he tilted his head a little to the side when I talked, like he was fascinated with my words. We went to Cubs games—Chris’s passion, despite the fact that he’d grown up on the south side. We saw quirky foreign films at the Landmark Theatre, then went to the bookstore across the street. We spent weekends at his apartment on Eugenie Terrace, where the decor had no apparent theme. The place had books al over and a huge comfortable chair under the windows where I sat and read while Chris cooked. I liked how he used odd little vegetables I’d never heard of before. I liked how he went across town to a gourmet delicatessen to buy a cheese his mom recommended. And I liked what happened when we went to bed at night.
    But after we were married—or was it during the planning of the wedding?—Chris gradual y stopped listening intently the way he always had. When I spoke, he barely looked up from his computer or his book. He agreed with my suggestions without contributing. He stayed on his side of the bed. When I brought it up, he said he didn’t know what I meant. He was busy, I was busy, and that was al there was to it.
    But it seemed Chris was in the mood tonight.
    “I’l be right there,” I said, giving him a smile. With a spark in my step, I went into the master bath—white and gray granite in there with maple cabinets—quickly brushed my teeth and gave myself a spritz of perfume. I opened the door and began undoing the buttons of my blouse in what I hoped was a sexy way, but I could tel I’d already lost him. His nose was buried in the Carthaginian War again, the covers pul ed up to his chin.
    When I slid in bed he squeezed my hand for a brief moment. “Love you,” he said absently, not taking his eyes away from his book.
    “You, too,” I said, which was true. I stil loved my husband. I turned over and looked at the frog one more time before I shut off the light.

chapter three
    T here were people in my bedroom, and they were talking. Laughing. Too much laughter.
    I squeezed my eyes shut. I burrowed under the blankets. More chortling, more talking. The woman’s voice sounded vaguely familiar, then the man’s voice became more clear. I heard the words “traffic” and then “coming up.” And then I remembered who these people were—Eric and Kathy. They were DJs, and they were on my radio, which meant it was time to get up.
    I have always wanted to be the kind of person who awoke refreshed and lovely at the first hint of daylight. I’d even thought I’d become such a person after years of work, but alas, I stil felt like a col ege kid who needed to sleep until noon. Chris was worse than me. He required two alarm clocks and three snooze button hits before he’d rouse from the bed. As a result, I was usual y showered and out the door before he got up.
    Eric and Kathy were laughing again, talking about