We Could Be Beautiful Read Online Free Page B

glass coffee table, with one foot on either side of the lilies I had bought earlier. She curled her toes back (her toenails matched her fingernails today: eggplant), then pointed them forward. She kept doing this, back and forth, and we stared at her feet because they were something to stare at. “Is he married? Kids? Why is he back now?”
    “Work.”
    Susan, a lover of gossip, squinted attentively as I went on to explain William’s memories of Eighty-Fourth Street and of my parents, and what he looked like (very tall, maybe six-four, gray hair, sensitive eyes, strong jaw, chiseled yet childlike features; I had been thinking about words to describe him), and the kiss at the end. I skipped the part about the haircut.
    “Sensitive eyes? Okay, you’re fucked.”
    “I know. But it’s good, right? Doesn’t it sound good?”
    “Definitely good,” Susan said, “almost too good.” When she looked up and saw my reaction to that—not happy—she said, “But listen, you deserve it. Oh my God, you deserve it. After the ride you’ve had, and Fernando—shit, girl.” She pointed a finger in the air. “Good stuff is coming, don’t worry.”
    By “the ride you’ve had,” Susan meant: all the terrible people you’ve chosen, including, most recently, Fernando Delarus, who asked you to marry him and then left you for someone else—not even a young model but an old, old woman, so the only problem could have been your personality.
    So yes, I was ready for the good stuff. I think, honestly, I hoped this business of getting young artists exposure and money would count as something Good I was doing, something to enhance the Good that would be returned to me by the universe. But that sounded so terrible and selfish and Bad that I wouldn’t have mentioned it to anyone, not even Susan.

    •
    Dan arrived just after the sandwiches, wearing his usual massage outfit: coal-gray stretchy pants and a white V-neck under a colorfully striped alpaca hoodie. When he smiled, the gap between his two front teeth reminded me, as it always did, of Madonna. It was also very endearing.
    “Hi,” he said, and kissed me on the cheek.
    “Dan-nay,” Susan said.
    “Susan.” He went to kiss her.
    “Can you fit me in or do you have a meditation retreat to go to?”
    Dan paused. He did this a lot. He liked to think about things. He looked at the ceiling. He often found the answer up there. “I can fit you in.”
    “Good. Sit.” Susan patted the couch.
    Dan rubbed his hands together—he did this as a reflex; it was what he did to warm his hands before touching skin—and did as he was told.
    “Okay, let’s go around. Updates, Danny, updates.” Dan and Susan hadn’t seen each other in a few weeks—she’d been in St. Bart’s avoiding the cruel end of spring. “I’m getting over the flu. Don’t worry, Dan”—she touched his arm—“I’m not contagious. Other than that, I am still single. Nobody good goes to St. Bart’s in May. I am considering buying a new car this summer. Not a red convertible, no. I am not having a midlife crisis, no, no. What else? My doctor told me to do yoga for my back. I hate yoga. It drives me insane, it’s too slow.” Dan and I laughed. “That’s it. Catherine, go.”
    “Met someone and feeling hopeful.”
    “Really?” Dan said.
    I shrugged. “We’ll see.”
    “Dan?”
    “I turned thirty-one this week.”
    “No you didn’t.”

    “I did.”
    “Baby,” Susan said.
    “I’m so sorry I forgot,” I said. “But we did get you a sandwich.”
    We moved to the table, the large glass dining table overlooking my tree and my street. I loved this street, and I had waited for a long time to buy the perfect home here. It was narrow and quaint and reminded me of France.
    Susan said, “I’m feral for this—I haven’t had real sustenance in days,” and dug into her sandwich (chicken salad), and Dan thoughtfully unwrapped his. I wasn’t that hungry, but I took a bite because it was there. It tasted