The One That Got Away Read Online Free PDF Page B

in our closet since the nursery radiator stubbornly refused to get hot. (When we had first bought the house, our plan was to renovate the back bedroom and add a bathroom, but with money being tight, what should have been a blue-and-brown monkey-themed nursery was now just a catchall for out-of-season clothes, old speakers, hockey sticks, and tax files.)
    I climbed into bed, holding my steaming cup carefully as I sank back into my stack of pillows. I had just cracked the Edith Wharton novel I was reading—only a few pages from the end—when Jimmy appeared carrying a white envelope.
    “What’s up?” I whispered.
    “Can you tell me what is a ‘bucket bag’ and why the hell is itfive hundred and ninety-eight dollars?” he asked, half-laughing, half-serious. “I’m really hoping it’s some sort of marketing stunt that you’ll be reimbursed for.”
    “First of all, I’m in PR, not marketing, and second of all, it’s none of your concern,” I said, attempting to grab the envelope.
    He held it out of reach, knowing I was trapped by hot tea on a lumpy bed. He stared at me until I confessed.
    “It’s a purse, okay? I bought it a couple weeks ago.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know. I was having a bad day. And I guess it caught me in a weak moment.”
    “So you spent six hundred dollars on a purse? That’s crazy.”
    “No, it’s not. Lots of women I know carry purses
way
more expensive.”
And those women don’t work half as hard as me
, I wanted to add but didn’t. We glared at each other.
    “Abbey, you know we can’t afford it.” He sighed and looked away. “God, why do you always do this?”
    “Do what?”
    “Make me the bad guy.”
    “You’re not the bad guy; obviously I am for wanting to spend
my
money on something for me.”
    “
Your
money?” he whisper-shouted. “How come when you make money, it’s yours, but when I make it, it’s ours? That’s not fair.”
    What’s not fair is that you’re not making any money at all
, I wanted to scream back.
You sit in your office just waiting for the phone to ring or drinking at your brother’s bar, while I run myself ragged with work, the kids, the house, and the four thousand other responsibilities that somehow got dumped on me when I married you.
    But instead, too tired to fight any longer, I told him, “I’ll take it back.”
    “Tomorrow.” He threw the envelope down in front of me, hisbrown eyes almost black with anger, and walked out, the creaking floorboards underscoring his rage.
    I picked up the bill and attempted to toss it back at him, but its pages separated and fluttered back down into my lap, mocking me. I shoved them onto the floor, set aside my mug, then flopped back onto my pillows.
    I should have gotten up and brushed my teeth and wiped the mascara off my eyes. But I didn’t care. I turned off the light and curled up under the bedspread, the bitter taste of tea still on my lips.
    The next morning I made Jimmy watch the kids while I headed straight for Nordstrom. I was dreading it, knowing the saleslady would take one look at my fake Uggs and even faker diamond studs and give me that “we both know you shouldn’t even be in here” look. As I turned onto Route 1 toward the City Line Mall, I found myself thinking of that photo of Alex van Holt in
Town & Country.
What was his Saturday morning like? Was he married? Did he have kids? Had he ever thought about me again after that day?
    At a stoplight, I pulled up behind a smooth navy BMW, its glossy windows hiding the glossy family inside, and wondered why the choices you make when you are young don’t ever seem to matter until you’re too old to go back and fix them. Or too tired to even try. I was a thirty-seven-year-old woman who had worked full-time her entire adult life, yet I belonged wholly to other people—my kids, my husband, my boss, my clients, even my mother. My daybook was filled with grocery lists, half-written press releases, dry-cleaning receipts, appointment