In Her Shoes Read Free

could. "Single," said her secretary. "Extremely single," said a paralegal. "Serial heartbreaker," whispered a first-year associate as she reaplied her lipstick in the ladies' room mirror. "And I hear he's good." Rose had blushed, washed her hands, and fled. She didn't want Jim to have a reputation. She didn't want him discussed in bathrooms. She wanted him to be hers alone. She wanted him to tell her she was beautiful, again and again. In the apartment upstairs, a toilet flushed. Jim grunted in his sleep. When he rolled over, she felt his foot brush against her shin. Oh, dear. Rose ran an experimental toe up the length of her calf. The news was not good. She'd been meaning to shave her legs, had been meaning to shave them for some time, kept promising she'd shave them before she went to her aerobic class, but she'd last attended class three weeks ago, and she'd been wearing tights to work every day, and . . . Jim rolled over again, pushing Rose to the absolute edge of the mattress. She stared unhappily at her living room, which might as well have borne a sign: Single Girl, Lonely, Late '90s. A trail of his-and-hers clothing lay on the floor beside five-pound bright yellow dumbbells propped up next to a Taste Bo tape that was still in its original plastic shrink-wrap. The treadmill she'd bought to fulfill a get-in-shape New Year's Resolution three New Years ago was draped with her dry cleaning. There was a half-empty Passionberry Punch wine cooler on the coffee table, four shoe boxes from Saks piled by the closet, and a half-dozen romance novels beside her bed. Disaster, Rose thought, wondering what she could do before dawn to give her apartment the appearance of being inhabited by some In Her Shoes 1
     
one with an interesting life. Was there an all-night emporium that sold throw pillows and bookcases? And was it too late to do something about her legs? As quietly as she could, she reached for the portable phone and crept into the bathroom. Amy answered on the first ring. "Wassup?" she asked. In the background, Rose could hear Whitney Houston wailing, which meant that her best friend was watching Waiting to Exhale for the hundredth time. Amy wasn't black, but that didn't stop her from trying. "You won't believe it," Rose whispered. "Did you get laid?" "Amy!" "Well, did you? I mean, why else would you be ringing me now?" "Actually," said Rose, flicking on the light and studying her glowing face in the mirror, "actually, I did. And it was . . ." She paused, and gave a little hop in the air. "It was so good!" Amy whooped. "Way to go, girlfriend! So who's the lucky guy?" "Jim," Rose breathed. Amy whooped even louder. "And it was unbelievable!" said Rose. "It was ... I mean, he's so . . ." Her call waiting beeped. Rose stared at the phone unbelievingly. "Ooh, popular girl," Amy said. "Call me back!" Rose clicked over, glancing at her watch. Who'd be calling her at almost one in the morning? "Hello?" She could hear loud music, voices—a bar, a party. She slumped against the bathroom door. Maggie. Big surprise. The voice on the other end was young, male, and unfamiliar. "Is this Rose Feller?" "Yes. Who's this, please?" "Um . . . well, my name's Todd." "Todd," Rose repeated. "Yeah. And, um . . . well, I'm here with your sister, I guess. Maggie, right?" In the background, Rose could hear her sister's drunken shout.
     
12 Jennifer weiner
     
"Little sister!" Rose scowled, grabbing a bottle of shampoo—"specially formulated for thin, limp, lifeless hair"—and tossed it under the sink, reasoning that if Jim stayed for a shower, he didn't need to be confronted with evidence of her problem locks. "She's . . . um. Sick, I think. She had a lot to drink," Todd continued, "and she was . . . well ... I don't know what else she was doing, really, but I found her in the bathroom and we were kind of hanging out for a while, and then she kind of passed out, and now she's, um, getting kind of loud. She told me to call you first, though," he