The Guy Not Taken
Page 1
FEATURING A WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS READERS CLUB GUIDE
“Shouldn’t be missed. . . . It is the reader who will be taken by this set of eleven marvelous short stories.”
—Entertainment Weekly
Jennifer Weiner’s talent shines like never before in this collection of short stories, following the tender, often hilarious, progress of love and relationships over the course of a lifetime.
We meet Marlie Davidow, home alone with her new baby late one night, when she wanders onto her ex’s online wedding registry and wonders what if she had wound up with the guy not taken. We find Jessica Norton listing her beloved river-view apartment in the hope of winning her broker’s heart. And we follow an unlikely friendship between two very different new mothers, and the choices that bring them together—and pull them apart.
The Guy Not Taken demonstrates Weiner’s amazing ability to create characters who “feel like they could be your best friend” (Janet Maslin) and to find hope and humor, longing and love in the hidden corners of our common experiences.
“Fans will savor Weiner’s confidential tone and salty wit.”
—People
“Another delightful example of Jennifer Weiner’s tender way with words and emotions.”
—Harper’s Bazaar
JENNIFER WEINER is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of twelve books, including Good in Bed, In Her Shoes, which was made into a major motion picture, and the forthcoming Who Do You Love. A graduate of Princeton University and a contributor to the New York Times, she lives in Philadelphia with her family. To learn more, visit www.jenniferweiner.com.
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COVER DESIGN BY ANNA DORFMAN • PHOTO ILLUSTRATION BY REGINA STARACE • AUTHOR PHOTO BY ANREA CIPRIANI MECCHI
Praise for New York Times bestselling author
JENNIFER WEINER
The Guy Not Taken
“This is a book you’ll want to lend to your friends. Just make sure you get it back, you may want to read it more than once. The common thread through all the stories is Weiner’s voice, her ease in any situation—humorous, serious or sad. These are Weiner characters: three-dimensional, with the ability to pull you in and make you forget you’re reading fiction.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Weiner’s star rises higher with The Guy Not Taken. . . . She continues her successful run with a compilation of eleven short stories, some of which Weiner wrote recently, others as early as when she was a teenager.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A readable mix of love, angst, disappointment and hope, this collection of short stories adds to Weiner’s stature as a writer. . . . If you weren’t previously a fan of Weiner’s you will be after reading The Guy Not Taken.”
—San Antonio Express-News
“Some of the stories were written when Weiner was in college, others were tucked into a shoebox and others more recent. But all are utterly readable with good characters and Weiner’s trademark wit.”
—Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
“The Guy Not Taken showcases a maturing Weiner. . . . [The] In Her Shoes author is resigned to the fact that in some circles she is referred to as the ‘Queen of Chick Lit.’ But I challenge anyone who says her short-story collection, The Guy Not Taken, isn’t serious women’s fiction. The women in these stories are a far cry from the Manolo-obsessed bubbleheads sometimes found in chick lit novels. These women apply healthy doses of self-doubt, loneliness and misgivings along with their lip gloss and mascara. All the stories in Weiner’s collection have that ‘Calgon, Take Me Away’ quality to which smart women, whose lives are complicated by careers, men, babies, parents and siblings, can relate.”
—USA Today
“Very, very funny. . . . These stories are entertaining, with distinctive dialogue and wit.”
—Philadelphia Inquirer
“These autobiographical stories suggest that Weiner is the kind of wisecracking pal who makes a great lunch date. . . . In Swim, a woman who left her TV job after her sexy writing partner led her on, then eloped with the show’s star, helps a nebbish craft a personal ad. When he says he’s picked ‘Lonelyguy 78’ as his screen name, she blurts, ‘Was ‘Desperateguy’ taken?’ Even a coda on the inspiration for the stories is a hoot.”
—People
“The Guy Not Taken has taken Weiner to the next level as an author. . . . With her latest collection, Weiner is proving that the masters of the oft-maligned chick-lit are voices to be reckoned with. An accessible anthology that takes readers on a ride through divorce, heartbreak, insecurity and what might have been, The Guy Not Taken is a tender, thought-provoking read that puts Weiner on the map as one of her generation’s best literary voices.”
—The Boston Herald
“Eleven sharply written short stories about women struggling—with humor and resolve—to get love right.”
—Life Magazine
“This collection of stories reads like a series of studies for Weiner’s larger chick-lit portraits. . . . One roots for Weiner’s characters as they come to terms—and in some cases, heal—from disappointment and neglect.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Thorough and clever . . . The Guy Not Taken is a collection that explores both sides of what happens when we get what we want, as well as how the idea of stepping out of our comfort zones can at times hold us back.”
—The Calgary Herald
“From the author of Good in Bed comes eleven short stories about romantic (and other) relationships with all their complications. Ranging from the humorous to the heartbreaking, the snippets mostly feature 30ish women, though there are male protagonists, too. One woman tries to woo her broker by putting her apartment on the market, while another young woman struggles with her father’s disappearance. Though the stories are refreshingly different from one another, Weiner’s style is consistent enough to keep readers tethered to her voice.”
—Daily News
“Jennifer Weiner’s new book of short stories, The Guy Not Taken, is really good. So good that Paramount has already optioned one story about a woman who obsessively checks her ex-boyfriend’s online wedding registry.”
—Jane Magazine
“These stories aptly demonstrate how deftly Weiner can transcend the normally limiting moniker of ‘chick-lit.’ Her characters are flesh-and-blood people, with flesh-and-blood problems. They navigate the everyday terrain that we all traverse and usually do so with self-deprecating humor. . . . It soon becomes apparent the reason for Weiner’s incredible popularity—her likeable voice. . . . The Guy Not Taken will delight fans of her earlier books and certainly garner new ones.”
—BookReporter
ALSO BY JENNIFER WEINER
Good in Bed
In Her Shoes
Little Earthquakes
Goodnight Nobody
Certain Girls
Best Friends Forever
Fly Away Home
Then Came You
The Next Best Thing
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place
s and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by Jennifer Weiner, Inc.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
First Washington Square Press trade paperback edition June 2007
WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Copyright permission information appears on p. 303.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Weiner, Jennifer
The guy not taken : stories / Jennifer Weiner.—1st Atria Books hardcover ed.
p. cm.
Contents: Just desserts—Travels with Nicki—The wedding bed—Swim—Buyer’s market—The guy not taken—The mother’s hour—Oranges from Florida—Tour of duty—Dora on the beach.
1. Single women—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3573.E3935G89 2006
813’.6—dc22
2006043009
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-3520-1
ISBN-10: 1-4165-3520-9
ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-9805-6 (Pbk)
ISBN-10: 0-7432-9805-5 (Pbk)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-4099-1 (eBook)
For Adam
Happiness
There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
—Jane Kenyon
1947–1995
CONTENTS
JUST DESSERTS
TRAVELS WITH NICKI
THE WEDDING BED
SWIM
GOOD MEN
BUYER’S MARKET
THE GUY NOT TAKEN
THE MOTHER’S HOUR
ORANGES FROM FLORIDA
TOUR OF DUTY
DORA ON THE BEACH
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTES ON STORIES
A CONVERSATION WITH JENNIFER WEINER
QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION
JUST DESSERTS
It was a late June afternoon. Jon, Nicole, and I were scattered around the pool in our backyard, watching our mother swim laps. Jon, who was almost fourteen, kicked rhythmically at the foot of his chair with his bright yellow Walkman earphones over his ears. “Cut that out,” my sister snapped. She was almost seventeen, and had felt entitled to boss our little brother around since his arrival had displaced her from her crib, even though he was taller than she was and muscular from a spring on the lacrosse team.
Jon kicked harder. Nicki leaned forward, brown eyes glaring, skinny shoulders tensed. “Stop it, you guys,” I murmured, as our mother touched the edge of the pool at the deep end and began another lap. The flowered skirt of her swimsuit flapped in her wake. Nicki sank back against the slightly mildewed cushion of her chaise lounge, which seemed to sag under the humid, gray sky. Even the leafy trees and lush lawns of our Connecticut suburb looked despondent in the heat. It had been over ninety degrees every day since June, and it hadn’t rained once, although there was thunder every night.
Mom flipped over again and started another lap, switching from the crawl to the breaststroke, with her sleek head bobbing in and out of the water. Underneath the tinted plastic of her goggles, I couldn’t tell whether her eyes were open or shut.
“Why doesn’t she wear a decent bathing suit?” Nicki grumbled to no one in particular. Nicki herself was clothed in a scrap of a bikini, neon green with black polka dots, cut high on the thigh and low on the chest.
I unlaced my workboots with grimy fingers and wiped my forehead on my sleeve, smelling the gasoline that had seeped into my clothes. I’d taken a women’s studies class that spring and had come home from college determined not to take any stereotypically female job. I’d passed up a chance to babysit or peddle perfume in the air-conditoned mall, and had gone to work for a commercial landscaping company, earning six dollars an hour pushing a big red mower up and down endless corporate office parks. It was miserable work, and I wouldn’t even have a good tan to show for my troubles: Lavish Landscaping rules dictated jeans, not shorts, because the mowers would kick up stones or broken glass—whatever you’d run over—and spit chunks of it back at your shins.
I yanked my shirt down over my hips and started fanning myself with my Lavish baseball cap.
Nicki glared at me. “Get downwind,” she commanded.
“I’m striking a blow for gender equality.”
“You sure smell as bad as a man,” said Nicki.
Jon settled his earphones around his neck. “Mom bounced a check to the car place,” he said.
Nicki made a disgusted hissing sound. “Oh,” I said. I twisted my shirt, feeling a mixture of sorrow and indignation. Sorrow that my family, my mother in particular, kept finding itself in situations like this; indignation that, somehow, I’d become the one who was supposed to do something about it. Down in the deep end, Mom’s arms moved like pistons in a slow machine, up and down, entering the water without a splash. When they’d dug the hole for the pool and filled it with concrete, the five of us had used a stick to write our names in the yielding gray sludge. Under the water and the tiles, our names were still there.
Nicki raked her pink-tipped toenails through the gravel. “I need a job,” she said.
“The babysitting thing didn’t work out?” I’d passed along all of the job offers I hadn’t taken to my sister, and as of that morning, she’d been working for a family down the street.
Nicki shook her head wordlessly, leaving me to fill in the blanks—the father had tried to grab her butt, the mother wanted her to empty the dishwasher while the kids were napping; the kids were brats; or some combination of A, B, and C. Or, more likely, one parent or the other had asked, with too much cloying sympathy, How are things at home?
“Lavish Landscaping’s always hiring,” I offered. Nicki grunted something unintelligible and arranged a towel under her head. Even when she was annoyed, she was adorable, with her brown hair permed into corkscrew curls, and a tiny heart-shaped face to go along with her slender frame. All of the cute genes floating around in our collective pool had gone to Nicki, whereas I’d cleaned up in the big, bosomy, awkward, and acneprone department.
“No physical labor!” she pouted.
I reached for the newspaper our mother had tucked underneath her chair and flipped to the classified ads. “Avon Convalescent
Home. That would be easy. Just feed the oldsters their mush, wheel them around a little bit.”
Nicki’s scowl deepened. “Josie,” she breathed in the fake-patient tone that signaled a full-blown tantrum was on the way. “You know how I feel about old people.” She reached for her baby oil and smoothed a dollop onto one hairless calf. “About all people, actually.”
I turned back to the ads. “The state parks system is looking for seasonal workers.”
“No people!” said Nicki, shuddering. “I don’t want to spend my whole day telling a bunch of idiots where they can swim or how to find the hiking trails.” She grabbed the tube of generic suntan lotion and squirted it vigorously onto her chest.
I pressed on. “It says here they’re looking for maintainers.”
“What’s that?”
I took my best guess. “You wouldn’t have to deal with the people, just their messes.”
Nicki gave a noncommittal snort.
“You might not have to talk to anyone. You could just walk through the woods all day, and spear garbage on a stick.”
She sat up, intrigued by the image of the cool woods and a job that would pay her to poke things. “Huh.”
“Outhouses,” said Jon.
“What?” asked Nicki.
I explained, “Well, there probably aren’t bathrooms in the woods.”
Nicki grimaced. “No outhouses!” she cried. She flung her suntan lotion onto the gravel and flopped furiously onto her stomach. “Why, oh why, do you all torture me so?” she murmured into the cushion. Milo, our bulldog, strolled over to investigate the commotion. He approached cautiously to sniff Nicki’s foot, but his stentorian breathing gave him away. Nicki waved her arm. “Go away, dog!” she yelled. Milo shuffled sadly down the sloping hill that led to the deck at the back of our house, as our mother raised her head from the water.
“You could work at Friendly’s,” she said.
Nicki was momentarily silenced, as if the irony was too great for her to decide immediately between one of several replies. Finally she arrived at “Who invited you into this conversation?”