You Should Have Known Read Online Free PDF

better magazine to start with!” Ron said merrily. “And I’m going to make you look so stunning, you’ll think some supermodel came in and pretended to be you.”
    Grace produced a highly disingenuous laugh and rearranged herself on the couch.
    â€œVery nice!” Rebecca said brightly. “But cross your legs the other way, all right? Better angle.”
    Grace did.
    â€œAnd we’re off!” said Ron, sounding chipper. He began to take pictures in a rat-tat-tat of clicks. “So,” he said as he dipped and leaned, producing—as far as she could tell—tiny variations on the same angle, “what’s your novel called?”
    â€œNovel? Oh, I didn’t write a novel. I couldn’t write a novel.”
    It occurred to her that she probably shouldn’t be talking. What would talking do to her mouth in the pictures?
    â€œYou don’t have a new book?” he said without looking up. “I thought you were a writer.”
    â€œNo. I mean yes, I wrote a book, but I’m not a writer. I mean…” Grace frowned. “It’s a book about marriage. I specialize in work with couples.”
    â€œShe’s a therapist,” Rebecca said helpfully.
    But wasn’t she a writer, too? Grace thought, suddenly perturbed. Didn’t writing a book make her a writer? Then something else occurred to her. “I didn’t hire anyone else to write it,” she insisted, as if he’d accused her. “I wrote it.”
    Ron had stopped shooting and was looking down into the digital monitor.
    â€œActually,” he said without looking up, “I need you a bit to the left. Sorry, my left. And could you lean back a little?… Okay,” he said, considering. “I think we might have been wrong about the hair.”
    â€œFine,” Rebecca said.
    Grace reached back and deftly removed the three heavy pins, and down came one shoulder-length coil of highly conditioned dark brown hair. She reached for it, to fan it out, but he stopped her. “No, don’t,” he said. “This is better. It’s sort of sculptural. You can’t see it, but there’s a nice contrast with the dark hair and the color of your blouse.”
    She didn’t correct him. It wasn’t a “blouse,” of course. It was a soft, thin sweater of parchment-colored cashmere—one of about five she owned. But she didn’t really want to talk blouses with Ron, even if he shot for Vogue .
    Then came a small adjustment of the vase. Another small adjustment of the book on the table. “Good,” he announced. “Right. Let’s go.”
    He began again. Rebecca looked on, saying nothing. Grace tried to breathe.
    She almost never sat here, on the couch, and the perspective was odd. The Eliot Porter poster, she noted, was askew, and there was a grimy mark over the light switch by the door. I must get that , she thought. And maybe it was finally time to replace the Eliot Porter. She was tired of the Eliot Porter. Wasn’t everyone tired of that Eliot Porter?
    â€œMarriage,” he said suddenly. “That’s a biggie. You’d think there wasn’t much left to say.”
    â€œAlways more to say,” said Rebecca. “It’s the kind of thing you don’t want to get wrong.”
    He went down on one knee and shot up at an angle. Grace tried to remember if that was supposed to make your neck look shorter or longer. “I guess I never thought too much about it. I thought, you meet somebody, if it’s the right person, you just know . I mean, I knew when I met my wife. I went home and told my friend I was living with, ‘This is the girl.’ Love at first sight kind of thing.”
    Grace closed her eyes. Then she remembered where she was, and she opened them. Ron put down his camera and picked up another one, which he proceeded to fiddle with. It seemed safe to speak.
    â€œThe difficulty is when people