by Lisa Beazley
New York
March 12 Sid, That story about your friend’s cheating husband is crazy. If karma is real, that guy is in for some serious trouble of the genital sort. Oh, I think River is fine with the one set of grandparents—it’s pretty common, isn’t it? I mean, we hardly knew Mom’s parents. At any rate, he turned out fantastic, so you did something right. Out of the blue I got a message from my old nanny, Wanda, asking if I knew anyone who needed help on Tuesdays because she has that day free. Well, as it turns out, I do. I need help! So I made a financially reckless but mentally essential decision on the spot and promised her four hours every Tuesday morning. I barely slept on Monday night, imagining what I would do with that free time. Visions of a clean and organized home, pedicured toes, an exercise-toned body, a fridge full of premade meals danced in my head. When she showed up at eight thirty, I practically ran out the door and went and had a coffee by myself and then wandered around the neighborhood. It was one of those perfect New York early-spring days that has people walking around smiling at one another like a bunch of cruise passengers. So when Wanda texted to say they were going to the park, I bolted home and did what most New Yorkers do when the weather changes; I switched out the winter with the summer clothes in storage. I still have half of March and all of April to get through, so this might be is certainly premature (I mean, it could still snow). But I was in the mood, so when it gets cold again, I’ll have to make do without my winter layers. I got all of the summer clothes up from my storage locker and realized that my summer wardrobe was either pretwins and too small, unwisely worn through my pregnancy and all stretched out, or just plain ugly. I couldn’t find a single item I was excited to wear. So I called Leo and perhaps a tad overdramatically stated my case, and he told me to go ahead and buy some new clothes. (God, I hate having to ask for permission to buy myself clothes.) Two hours later, the boys and Wanda came home to find me on the floor with my laptop, my ShopBop.com shopping bag overfilled, and surrounded by heaps of unwanted summer clothes. I told Wanda to take as much as she wanted. She took almost all of it, so I had to buy more stuff. I’m a bit sick over putting $3,900 on the credit card—and then I couldn’t send poor Wanda on the subway with two hefty bags of clothes, so I gave her $40 extra for cab fare, so there goes our pizza money for tonight! You’d think I’d be excited about the new wardrobe, but I just feel sad that the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in weeks has involved online shopping. I never felt this way when I was working. I was busy and productive, and I managed to use the toilet when I needed to and ate a respectable lunch every day. Here, I’m busyish and hardly productive, but the toilet and the lunch things seem like absolute luxuries to me now. At my job, stuff happened. Here, it never feels as if anything happens. I’m just trying to survive each day, and before I know it, a whole season has passed and nothing has changed. And then, of course, I look back at pictures of the boys from just a few months ago and tear up at how much they’ve grown. (What is it they say . . . kids make the years fly and the days drag?) And then I hate myself for not treasuring these fleeting moments. If being a mom is my job now, I’m not a very good employee. I mean well, but I’m always screwing it up. The other day I caught myself looking at Quinn doing something asinine and thinking, I’m trying to enjoy you. Now be enjoyable, damn it! The thing is, I felt differently about the boys when I was working. I was good at being a working mom. I was efficient and decisive at work (way more so than I was before having kids) and at home, I was present and just “on,” you know? At least that’s how I remember it, but maybe I’m romanticizing. Some mornings I lie in bed thinking, I need a change. I can’t do this all-day every-day mommy thing anymore. I’ll psych myself up to schedule a coffee or a drink with an old work contact, to get around to freelancing, but I never do. Is it too pathetic to wish for something just a bit thrilling to happen to me? I’m so flipping bored all the time. Do you ever feel like that? Some days I wonder if I’m ever going to feel excited again at the sound of Leo’s voice at the end of the day. Honestly, it’s hard to imagine a scenario in which I feel anything close to “in love” with my husband. I mean, I am glad to see him, but mostly because as soon as he walks in, I go out for my run (confession: I don’t run so much as walk around the neighborhood and look into people’s windows at dusk. There’s a house on Morton and two on Charles that I’ve developed a serious obsession with. You should see these chandeliers!). It’s getting late. I should sleep. Love ya. —Cassie Singapore
March 13 Dear Cassie,
Well, Adrian’s job contract extended . . . It was supposed to be two years, but they said they wanted him here indefinitely. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I mean, I do enjoy living here, but part of the reason I like it is because it’s temporary. It’s like a break from reality . . . My helper, my superrich friends, my weekends in Bali—what’s not to love, right? Only it’s not home. And I don’t know that it ever could be. I don’t want Lulu to grow up seeing Mom and Dad only once a year. And River will go to college next year, someplace in the US. I don’t want to be on the other side of the world from him. I’ve asked A. if they might change their mind. But he wants to stay. We’re supposed to go to dinner tonight and talk about it. I’ll let you know how it goes. XO, Sid New York March 24 Sid— I only have a minute, but re. staying in Singapore indefinitely? No!!! Come back!!! I miss you too much. What happened with your talk?? xoxo, Cassie Singapore
March 26 Cassandra Marie— Are you okay? Tell me you were just having a bad day when you sent that last letter. You do a lot. It just doesn’t feel that way when you’re with little kids all day. You are their world—don’t forget that. It’s no small thing. As for the new clothes, just enjoy them! What are you supposed to do, walk around in maternity gear for the rest of your life? Your kids are three. BTW, I saw those stretched-out old undies of yours in your pile of clothes at Christmas. I really hope at least four hundred of those dollars went toward lingerie, or at least some suitable knickers. (Another perk of my expat life: I get to co-opt all the words I like from the Brits and the Aussies. Coming soon: “keen” for interested in and “pissed” for drunk.) Sex is a great cure for boredom, you know. Don’t tell me that you and Leo are all set in that department because I can tell that you’re not. This is something that men understand and a lot of women don’t: It’s not about quality; it’s about quantity. In the spirit of our letter-writing challenge, you should do a sex challenge. Every night for a week, and then see what happens. And if that doesn’t cure your boredom and perk up your marriage, join a book club or something. Or write me more letters. Seriously, Cass—the ripple effect is real. One thing changes for the better, and soon everything is looking up. Big, big hug, Sid New York April 4 Sid, This may be what rock bottom looks like. The boys are on their second hour of TV, and I have collapsed on the floor in a quietly maniacal cry-laugh at your sex challenge suggestion. I’m sure this isn’t what you intended, but God, did it make me feel depressed. Every night for a week? It takes us nearly three months to have sex seven times! I blame several factors. 1. You. You who got the entire skin-elasticity allotment for our family. Maybe if I didn’t have the midsection of a ninety-year-old, I could let my husband see me naked. But I will not! Leo knows something horrible is going on under my clothes and he used to respect that, but now I swear he keeps trying to catch me off guard in the buff. 2. Honestly, I don’t even look forward to it. Sex between Leo and me these days seems like more of a hassle than it’s worth. There are other factors, of course—but they are totally predictable, and I can’t bear to spend the time to write down a bunch of stale-marriage clichés. Xo, Cass Singapore
April 21 Cassie!!!
You’re nuts! I hope you are joking. Every time I saw you in a bikini, I would think, damn, why did I quit ballet? Remember Evan Rogers, the football captain and my junior-prom date? He once told me that he thought you had the best body in
the whole school. If he hadn’t been such a meathead, I might have told you at the time. You are beautiful. And seriously? Your husband hasn’t seen you naked in more than three years? Get over yourself! He’ll just be happy to see boobs. Trust me. Sorry this is so short. I am running out and just wanted to get this note to you as soon as I read your last one. Will fill you in next time! Love, Sid I’m embarrassed to admit it, but that story about Evan Rogers did give me a little thrill. And the same day the letter arrived, my big box of new clothes finally showed up after two failed delivery attempts, and so did a notice from Little Oaks Preschool: The boys had made their way up the wait list and were being offered two mornings a week, immediately. It was like my birthday and Christmas all rolled into one: a twenty-year-old compliment, a letter from Sid, two spots in a great preschool, and the largest wardrobe upgrade to which I had ever in my whole life treated myself. The timing was perfect because I’d spent the morning being annoyed with Leo, who had reminded me he would be spending most of the coming weekend in a “boot camp” for turophiles at Murray’s Cheese, which meant the boys and I would be on our own, just like every other day. Plus, I knew he’d be bringing home the world’s rankest cheese to sit in our refrigerator and smell up the entire apartment. I’d blown up at him about it that morning, so to get those letters and the ShopBop box that day was a welcome distraction. I called Leo right away about the preschool. When we’d put them on the waiting list, I was still working. Leo seemed surprised, but the cheese-boot-camp episode worked in my favor after all, because he didn’t dare suggest that since I was at home now, perhaps the boys didn’t need to be in school just yet. (In fact, that’s exactly what I was thinking, but I was so overjoyed at landing the two spots that I pushed on through those doubts.) Nor did he balk at the astronomical deposit we’d need to pay in the next seventy-two hours, bless him. Instead he commented that it was strange that the school still sent notices via mail, especially with such a tight deadline. But in my world important things came in the mail all the time, so to me it made perfect sense. “So we can do it, right?” I asked him. “Do they really need to start now? There are only two months until summer break. Couldn’t they just start in September?” “It’s now or never. There are hundreds of people waiting for these two spots.” I told him I’d let Wanda go as soon as she found another family for Tuesdays. “All right.” He sighed. “We might have to eat beans and rice for the rest of the month, but you can drop off a check today.” “Yes! Thanks, hon. Love you.” “Love you, too. Bye, Cass.” But my hands shook as I dropped off the pile of paperwork and the check that afternoon. And I cried like a baby when their first day of school arrived. I waited until I was home, but once there, I curled up on Joey’s bed and sobbed into his pillow for a good twenty minutes. Leo, who could tell I was barely holding it together when we’d said our goodbyes to the boys that morning in the light-filled welcome zone, called to check on me. “They’re just growing up so fast,” I choked out, the way every mother must on her child’s first day of school. CHAPTER SIX
Every Wednesday my closest mommy friend, Monica Jones, and I take our kids to a playground or a museum or a free music class or something like that. I met Monica in a twins baby group. Hers are Ana and Jonny. We bonded because neither of us was superexcited about being there, and it showed. Our eyes caught each other on a roll after another mom got all verklempt at the “incredible bond she feels with all of us.” I was still working at the time, and my need to be out of the house and around other adults wasn’t as fierce as it is now. Still, I had forced myself to go since I’d already taken the morning off for the twins’ checkup, and it was in the basement of a church that was on my way home from the doctor’s office.
I pinned Monica as a potential friend from the second I laid eyes on her. She was beautiful and stylish; her jet-black hair and intricate eye makeup made her seem like some exotic creature among the other haggard, no-time-for-makeup moms. (Never mind that I more closely resembled them than I did Monica, despite the fact I was headed into the office after the playgroup.) Leo grew up in a big, extended, tight-knit family, so he’s most comfortable when he’s surrounded by a bunch of people. Me, I’m in my element around beautiful and fabulous people. I think that’s why I love New York. Being Sid’s sister, I’d grown comfortable in my role as the plain sidekick. So while the others drifted toward their fellow messy and mousy moms, regarding Monica from afar as some freak of motherhood, I went right up to her and introduced myself. Silly slobs, I thought. Don’t they know that they should latch onto someone like this any chance they get? Life is just easier for good-looking people, and if you can align with one, good on you, as Grandma Margie would say. Monica turned out to be warmer and more open than her eye roll suggested. Within minutes, I learned that her husband is an artist who is at home a lot (so that’s why she has time for makeup). She lived around the corner from me on Leroy Street, on the first floor of a brownstone next door to the house that served as the facade for The Cosby Show. I was immediately eager to see her apartment, and told her as much—as one can do without shame upon learning a fellow New Yorker’s address. She invited me and the kids for a playdate that weekend. We turned out to be kindred spirits, potty-mouthed foils to the overearnest moms around us. Don’t get me wrong—we love our kids as much as the next gal, and we want them to have a magical childhood and grow into balanced, kind, and productive members of society. We just think that this is achievable without all the hand-wringing and obsessing over their every transgression. Monica grew up way up on 116th Street in Spanish Harlem, and then studied fashion design at Parsons, where she met TJ, a painter. They’d lived with three roommates in a sixth-floor walk-up on Avenue D, and then through a friend of a friend of a friend, TJ ended up painting a mural for Liv Tyler’s kid’s room, and it got into domino magazine. Now every parent on UrbanBaby wants one of his murals, which he now charges a fortune for. Monica helps TJ run his business and is also a mommy blogger. About 70 percent of all full-time moms in New York have a blog. Monica’s is my favorite. Her posts have titles like “Show Me a Mom Who Brings Sugar-Free Brownies to the Halloween Party, and I’ll Show You a Real Asshole.” She hosts a weekly caption contest for photos she takes at playgrounds around the city, eyes blacked out like in Glamour Don’ts and sends the winner goodies from swag she’s always getting. California Baby sent her an enormous basket of products to review. And LeapFrog sent two of those LeapPad things that no one could get two Christmases ago. She is positively wicked when it comes to the more sanctimonious mommy bloggers like my neighbor Jenna, who I’ll get to later. I love Monica because she reminds me of Sid in her confidence and quick laughter and always-on-ness. But where Sid looks first for the good in someone, Monica looks first for the ridiculous or pathetic, and then homes in on it for her own amusement. Monica’s posts were often picked up by Babble, The Huffington Post, and other mainstream websites. She even had a following among the hipster, baby-opposed crowd. Gawker profiled her with the headline “Our Favorite Breeder.” Once, we went to hand-deliver the prize to her photo caption winner and it was this fifty-year-old unshaven guy in a bathrobe, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t have kids. His prize was a My Breast Friend nursing pillow, and we roared with laughter, imagining the uses he might find for it. (In fact, I had used my own as a snack tray as often as I’d used it as a nursing aid.) When I rounded the corner onto Hudson, Monica was already there waiting for us, which was a first. I’m perpetually punctual and she is always late. It felt nice to have someone waiting for me for a change. So this is how the other half lives, I thought. In addition, I was feeling refreshed to be out of my black leggings, Frye boots, and oversized V-neck T-shirt combo, and upbeat because of the sunshine and determined daffodils promising warmer days to come. Café tables dotted Hudson Street for the first time since October, and my new striped maxi dress was comfortable and casual and magically skimmed my breasts and hips but not my stomach. If I’d had any money left,
I would have ordered three more. I’d even taken forty-five seconds to apply mascara and lip gloss. I felt like making the most of this day. Monica was always put together. She was never without makeup and a bona fide outfit—and usually overdressed for a day at the playground, if you ask me. Today it was skinny jeans with an expensive-looking sheer white oversized tank through which you could see her salmon-colored lacy bra when her ikat-print scarf moved around. The brown leather moccasin booties were an unusually practical footwear choice for her. Layers of thin gold bangles and intricate eye makeup in shades of peach and gold pulled the whole thing together. I do always look forward to her outfits. She’s one of those people who dresses to reflect her mood, making her fashion choices all the more fun to observe, especially for someone like me, who tends to wear the exact same thing every day. Last week she wore one of those NEW YORK FUCKING CITY T-shirts you see in all the schlocky stores on Bleecker Street and totally pulled it off. And she wore it to the playground—under a jacket, but still. Maybe it’s because she can accessorize like nobody’s business, or maybe it’s because she has a unique brand confidence mixed with defiance that comes with having been born and raised on the island of Manhattan. For the first time ever, I didn’t feel like her sloppy sidekick. We were walking the long way to the park to take advantage of the streets with wider and smoother sidewalks. The kids ate their lunch while we pushed along and did our best to have a conversation. We were on West Eleventh, two blocks from the river, when we were approached by a sheepish young guy in a faded black T-shirt and ripped jeans. “Hi there. I’m so sorry,” he said. “Could I get you to cross the street? We’re just doing a photo shoot here.” “No,” said Monica. “That’s not happening.” I was typically accommodating in these situations—there were always film crews around, and they had the nicest border patrol people—but with our double strollers and the street lined with parked cars, there was no way to get across without backtracking to the corner. I stood beside Monica and shrugged at the guy apologetically. “Okay, um, maybe you could just wait here a second,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Sorry. I’ll just check and see . . .” I bent down to pick up a sippy cup that had been flung from my stroller and heard a familiar voice calling my name. Walking toward me was Jake Brunner, the guy I’d dated on and off for three years before I met Leo. (When I replay this scene in my head, I’m equal parts flattered and weirded out that he must have recognized me by my ass.) He wore blue jeans and a chef’s coat, and as he got closer, I could swear he was wearing mascara. His new restaurant, the Pig, had recently opened in a narrow two-story spot on West Eleventh. With three-hour waits and an effusive New Yorker review, everyone was talking about it. “Jake. Hi. Congratulations—I keep hearing about you,” I said. He leaned in for a peck on the cheek, and I surprised myself by going weak at his scent: vetiver cologne tinged with bacony kitchen smells. The combination of his nascent star power, my new clothes, and the lovely spring day turned me into a nervous schoolgirl. I stammered and tittered my way through some chitchat, and then he said, “Hey. Have you guys eaten?” Monica, still in bold and brassy mode, stuck her hand out. “Actually, we’re starved. Hi. I’m Monica.” I apologized for having failed to introduce them, and then, when I floundered awkwardly to give Jake a designation—I think I went with “old friend”—he interrupted. “Listen, we’re about finished here, and I just made all this food for the photo shoot, so why don’t you come in and eat?” “Oh, that’s very tempting,” I said, regaining some level of coherence. “But we can’t. Got to get these kids to the park before they combust.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Monica’s head snap back in what I guessed was objection. “At least let me send some with you,” he said, glancing down at my kids for an uneasy second but not really acknowledging them. “Come on. I’ve got Brussels sprouts,” he said, drawing out the words playfully. He had wooed me with those Brussels sprouts, and he knew it. On our second date, he made me a sexual bet—which he’d won—that he could make me (a proclaimed Brussels sprouts hater) love the tiny cabbages. With an excitingly foreign tingle in my stomach, I realized that he was flirting. Jake went inside, and Monica, the kids, and I stood out there while the photographer and his awkward assistant waited impatiently. I was nervous and buzzy while he was away, and I could feel Monica’s eyes on me, but I refused to look at her. Instead I busied myself with the kids, wiping their peanut-butter-smeared faces and hands until Jake returned with a large white shopping bag. “Here you go. I threw in a couple of invitations to this opening party we’re having next month. You guys should come.” “Oh, thank you. Sounds fun,” I said. He pecked me on the cheek again and gave my arm a light squeeze, then told Monica it was nice meeting her. Monica and I walked the three remaining blocks to the West Side Highway in silence. Waiting for the traffic light, I could feel her eyes on me, but I kept looking straight ahead, trying to hide the smile that was creeping onto my lips. Finally, Monica blurted out, “Well?” The noise of the traffic meant that the kids probably couldn’t hear us. “He’s cute, right?” I said, still refusing to look at her head-on. “Yeah,” she said, still staring at me expectantly. “My ex. Serious. Right before Leo. Didn’t want kids.” “We’re going to that party, right?” said Monica. “No.” “Yes! Please!” “Maybe,” I whispered. I normally would have said, Sure, why not?, but the butterflies in my stomach were a red flag. “You already have the perfect outfit in that ShopBop box, don’t you?” Actually, I had two possible outfits in mind. “We’ll see, okay? I don’t know,” I said. Leo and Monica’s husband, TJ, had never met. We rarely got together without the kids, but when we did, it was always just the two of us. So it went without saying that if we did go, the guys were not coming. We arrived at the playground, found an empty bench, and set the kids loose before tucking into our bag from Jake. It contained a heaping box of the famous Brussels sprouts braised in beer and bacon fat, six grilled lamb chops, and a box of short ribs in a thick and gooey sauce. He’d also included two bottles of sparkling water, which he knew I regarded as a special treat. Besides being mothers of twins, Monica and I are also both married to vegetarians. My dinners this week so far had consisted of cereal and milk, an Amy’s frozen pizza, and vegetable lo mein from the Chinese takeout. At first I’d admired Leo’s vegetarianism. He had stopped eating meat for ethical reasons when he studied land management at Ithaca College. I was in awe of his commitment and didn’t disagree with anything about it, but I also couldn’t imagine my life without the prospect of a great burger. Leo never made me feel bad or judged for that. I’m not sure he’d say the same about me. In fact, there were times when I found his vegetarianism annoying—like when I was pregnant and starving and just wanted to pop into any old restaurant but had to study the menu first to make sure there was something he could eat. He always insisted he could find something to eat anywhere. But I hated to see him order a side of rice and steamed vegetables while I enjoyed a nice club sandwich. A giddiness took hold of me and Monica as we beheld the spread before us. “Beats the granola bar I planned for lunch today,” I said, selecting a rib. Monica let out a deep and gurgling laugh as she tore into a lamb chop. She had tucked a spare T-shirt of Jonny’s into her shirt to act as a bib. Our feast was attracting the attention of the other parents and nannies. One mom actually stood and watched us like a spectator as we feasted on the piles of beef like a couple of Vikings home from battle. Monica held out a lamb chop and beckoned her over with it. “Do you want one? There’s plenty!” When the woman looked away, embarrassed, Monica chirped, “It’s okay! It’s organic, grass-fed, local, all that!” I nudged her and hissed, “Shut up!” She just cackled, drunk on meat. “You’re right. More for us.” Then she yelled over to the other mom, “Never mind!” I normally felt embarrassed or annoyed when Monica was needlessly confrontational, but I was as gaga as she was. When we made eye contact, our faces and hands covered in whatever heavenly sa
uce the short ribs were in, we dissolved into a giggling fit. Though it only deepened our hysterics, we kept looking at each other through sobs of laughter, gasping for air and trying not to choke. I’d finally worked myself down to a groaning giggle and grabbed a pack of baby wipes from the bottom of my stroller, but the crime-scene handprint I made on the package only set us off again. My stomach and face hurt for an hour afterward. I got home that day and had a letter from Sid. My heart did a little dance the way it does every time I see her writing on the envelope. I’ve got a thing with handwriting. Leo’s was nearly a deal breaker. If he weren’t such an exquisite eater, it would have been. This will sound incredibly shallow, but the way someone writes and the way they eat are as important to me as how they vote and how they kiss. We had been together six months. On Valentine’s Day, he surprised me with a weekend at the Royalton on Forty-fourth Street. It was all very romantic, with nothing but eating, drinking, and hotel sex for two days. I woke up late on Sunday morning and found a note on the pillow. Wake up! I miss you! Went to get bagels. —Leo. I recoiled in disgust. Who was this from? Surely not the man I love! He’s not a lefty! Why is everything leaning backward? Did he recently have hand surgery? I thought I knew him. How is it possible that this is the first time I’m seeing his handwriting? Then he came back with the bagels and we sat on the bed eating them. It was those bagels that saved him. He was a great eater. You know how Brad Pitt eats in every movie, and there’s something so sensual and enchanting about it? Well, that’s how Leo eats. With his mouth closed and eyes twinkling, he chews fast and with purpose, but miraculously silently. He’ll raise his eyebrows and give little grunts of approval or interest while he’s chewing, but he waits until he’s finished to speak. It’s the perfect combination of gentlemanly and rugged. I focused on the bagels and coffee and my lover’s eating and tried to put the shock of five minutes ago out of my head. “I got something else while I was out,” he said. “The paper?” I asked. “Already here.” He motioned to the fat Sunday Times on the floor in the corner. “What else is there?” I said. As far as I was concerned, everything I needed for a perfect Sunday morning was in that room. If only that wretched note would disappear. He reached down and produced a small red box from the pocket of his jacket on the floor next to the bed. I stopped chewing. He was looking down, seeming to focus on getting the box opened just right. Both of us were staring at the box when it finally opened to reveal a sparkly circle-cut diamond ring. We looked up at each other at the same time, and he said, “Will you marry me, Cassie?” I forced myself to finish chewing the huge bite of salt bagel and cream cheese before I said anything, but tears were already coming to my eyes and I was nodding my head affirmatively. We cried and giggled and hugged and kissed for about fifteen minutes, and then I suddenly had the urge to call everyone I knew and go buy a pile of Brides magazines. I phoned my parents first. They already knew. Leo had called and asked for their blessing. When I heard about other people doing that, I thought it was a bit stupid and sexist, but at that moment it made me feel like I had landed the sweetest, most thoughtful guy in the whole world. Sid was there, and we shrieked on the phone together. She made me put Leo on, and I could hear her cooing at him and telling him how happy she was. My family had always approved of Leo. I think at first they were merely relieved at how normal and stable he seemed after my two previous serious boyfriends, Spencer, the trust-fund brat for whom I’d moved to California right after college, and of course, Jake, the on-again, off-again heartthrob who seemed to be constantly reevaluating my worthiness as a girlfriend. Leo’s big Italian Catholic family of brothers gave him immediate credibility, and his even-tempered and affable nature signaled a low-drama future. A more sentimental person might have saved that note for a scrapbook or to stick in the side of a picture frame. But when we checked out of the hotel at two in the afternoon, I chucked it in the trash and tried to forget about this gross shortcoming of my future husband. CHAPTER SEVEN