The Theory of Opposites

The Theory of Opposites Read Free Page A

Book: The Theory of Opposites Read Free
Author: Allison Winn Scotch
Tags: Contemporary
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not just having a conversation? Why is your phone more important than egg rolls?
    “Amanda wants to know if we can take Nicky this weekend.”
    “But we…um…okay…”
    He is already typing her back.
    “Shawn!” I say, more firmly than I mean to, or maybe exactly as firmly as I mean. His flying fingers abort, and he snaps to.
    I say, more kindly: “We haven’t had a weekend to ourselves in a month. I mean, I don’t want to be the bad guy here, but…”
    “Will, we’re all she has. And you love Nicky.”
    “I do love Nicky,” I agree. But I think: but not as much as I used to. Pubescent twelve isn’t nearly as great as adorable seven. And then I hate myself for even giving voice to conditional love and what it might say about both me and my own prospects as a mother.
    “… Mister Card. Is. Calling. Mister. Card. Is calling.”
    “Who’s Mister Card?” Shawn asks.
    “MasterCard,” I say. My face points down but my spirits buoy upward — I knew it was stolen! I knew I didn’t lose it!
    I grab the receiver.
    “This is the fraud early warning department. Is this Willa Golden?”
    Golden is actually Shawn’s name. When we married three years ago, I was desperate to shed the moniker — Chandler — that had followed me around like a shadow, my dad’s shadow, for so long. And though I knew Shawn was my destiny, knew he was my “meant to be,” I’d never quite adjusted to the switch. Golden. I wanted so desperately to slide into it without a hiccup, but the truth is that I still hesitated when someone called out “Mrs. Golden!” in a restaurant, still looked twice at my driver’s license to ensure the proof. Shawn was mine. I was his. Willa Golden. Like the “Chandler” part was maybe just the in-between phase of my life.
    “Yes,” I say to the MasterCard agent. “This is Willa Golden.”
    “We have some suspicious activity on your card, and we’d like to go over the charges with you.”
    I look at Shawn and pump my fist ( my card was stolen! I knew it!) , and he looks at me and shrugs.
    I turn back toward the phone.
    Yes, I think, I was right. I win.
    And then the moment passes, and I remember how much I love Shawn, that Grape! can’t be what I think it is, and my dad wouldn’t call this a win. No, in fact, he might even chalk this up as a loss.
    —
    Later, Shawn and I settle into our Thursday night routine: our Chinese food and the highest-rated network reality show, Dare You!, in which contestants are goaded on by the opposition and the host, a chisel-jawed blond named Slack Jones who has gone on to fame and notoriety thanks to the decade-long gig. If you land all the dares, you win $100,000. (There is a small portion of the population who devote their lives to preparing to be contestants. Google it. You’ll find the forums. It’s strange, but I suppose not the strangest obsession out there.)
    Though I’d never admit it aloud, I watch the show to assess what can go wrong due to the forces of gravity and nature or engine speed or torque or rope slack while simultaneously assessing what can go awry due to human nature: can the contestants control their fear enough to abate their shaking fingers as they clutch a wire while belaying across a skyline? Can they calm their tempers enough to get through a task in which their frustratingly inept partners are responsible for pulling their own weight up a volcano? Can they tiptoe quietly enough not to disturb mountain lions; can they repress their gag reflex when forced to drink a smoothie made of urine?
    The push-pull between what’s in their control and what isn’t is what makes Dare You! so fascinating to me, though inarguably most people watch it just to see a lot of stupid people do a lot of stupid shit.
    “Listen,” Shawn says, when they break for a commercial. He wrestles an egg roll from the box on the coffee table and bites off the top, the greasy crumbs landing on his chest. “I know that Nicky is going through his awkward phase

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