looks nothing like his brother, which is both a comfort and a sorrow. Unlike Jimmy, Ethan is a bit…well, average. Nice—looking, but kind of unremarkable. Medium brown eyes, somewhat disheveled brown hair, average height, average weight. Kind of a vanilla type of guy. He has a neat little beard, the kind so many baseball players favor—three days of stubble, basically, which gives him an attractive edginess, but he’s…well, he’s Ethan. He looks a bit like an elf in some ways—not the squeaky North Pole elves, but like a cool elf, a Tolkien elf, mischievous eyebrows and sly grin.
He regards me patiently. I swallow. Swallow again. It’s a nervous habit of mine. Fat Mikey jumps into Ethan’s lap and head butts him until Ethan obliges the bossy animal by scratching his chin. Ethan rescued him from the pound a few years back, saying no one would take the ugly beast, and gave him to me. Fat Mikey has never forgotten just who sprung him from prison, and now favors Ethan with a rusty purr.
I clear my throat. “Well, listen. You know, ever since Jimmy died, you’ve been, just…well. Incredible. Such a good friend, Ethan.” It’s true. I don’t have the words to voice my gratitude.
His mouth pulls up on one side. “Well. You’ve been great, too.”
I force a smile. “Right. Um…well, here’s the thing, Ethan. You know that Corinne had a baby, of course. And it got me thinking that, well…” I clear my throat. “Well, I’d like to have a baby, too.” Gah! This isn’t coming out the way I want it to.
His right eyebrow raises. “Really.”
“Yeah. I’ve always wanted kids. You know. So, um…” Why am I so nervous? It’s just Ethan. He’ll understand. “So I guess I’m ready to…start dating. I want to get married again. Have a family.”
Ethan leans forward, causing Fat Mikey to jump off his lap. “I see,” he says.
I look at the floor for a second. “Right.” Risking a peek at Ethan, I add, “So we should probably stop sleeping together.”
CHAPTER TWO
ETHAN BLINKS. HIS EXPRESSION doesn’t change. “Okay,” he says after a beat.
I open my mouth to brook his argument, then realize he hasn’t made one. “Okay. Great,” I mumble.
Ethan sits back and looks toward the kitchen. “So seeing your new niece really got to you, huh?”
“Yes. I guess so. I mean, I’ve always wanted…well, you know. Husband, kids, all that. I’ve been thinking about it lately, and then today-” I opt not to describe my whisker. “I guess it’s time.”
“So is this theoretical, or do you have someone in mind?” he asks. Fat Mikey lets out a squeaky meow, then lifts his leg and starts licking.
I clear my throat. “It’s theoretical. I just…I just figured we should make a clean break of it first, you know? Can’t have a friend with privileges if I’m trying to find a husband.” A nervous bleat of laughter bursts from my throat.
Ethan starts to say something, then seems to change his mind. “Sure. Most boyfriends wouldn’t like to find out that you’ve got a standing arrangement with someone else.” His tone is mild.
“Right,” I say after a pause.
“Is that door still sticking?” He nods to the slider, which leads to the tiny balcony.
“Don’t worry about it,” I mutter. My face feels hot.
“Oh, hell, Luce, don’t worry. I’ll fix it. You’re still my sister—in—law.” For a second, he just stares at the glass door.
“Are you mad?” I whisper.
“Nah.” He stands up, then comes over to me and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “I will, of course, miss the smokin’ sex, but you’re probably right. I’ll drop in tomorrow to fix the door.”
That’s it? “Okay. Um, thanks, Ethan.”
And with that, he’s gone, and I have to say, it feels odd. Empty and quiet.
I’d thought he might have been a little more…well…I don’t know what. After all, we’ve been sleeping together for two years. Granted, he travels all week, and on the weekends when he had Nicky, obviously we didn’t do anything, but still. I guess I didn’t expect him to be so…blasé.
“What are we complaining about?” I ask myself out loud. “It couldn’t have gone any better.” Fat Mikey rubs against my ankles as if in agreement, and I reach down to pet his silky fur.
The evening stretches in front of me. I have seven hours until I head for the bakery. A normal person would go to bed, but my schedule is erratic at best. Another thing Ethan and I have in common: the man only sleeps four or five hours a night. I wonder if we’ll still play Scrabble or Guitar Hero late at night, now that we’re not…well, we were never really a couple. Just friends, and sort of relatives, linked forever by Jimmy. And lovers, though my mind bounces away from that word. Friends with privileges sounds much more benign.
In the first year after Jimmy died, Ethan had been one of the few people whose company I could stand. My friends—well, it was hard for both them and me. I’d married and buried a husband when most of my peers weren’t even thinking about a serious relationship. A lot of them just sort of…faded away, not knowing what to say or do for a woman widowed at twenty—four after eight months and six days of marriage.
Corinne ached for me, but seeing her eyes well up every time she saw me didn’t do much for my emotional state. My mom had a grim resignation to Jimmy’s death, almost a been there, done that, own that crappy T—shirt attitude as she patted my hand and shook her head. My aunts, forget it. To them, it was my destiny…Poor Lucy, well, at least she got it over with. Not that they were heartless enough to say that, but there was sort of a maudlin welcome feeling when I was around them, as if my widowhood was simply a fact of life. As for Gianni and Marie, I could hardly bear to be around them. Jimmy was their firstborn son, the chef in their restaurant, the heir apparent, the crown prince, and of course, the Mirabellis were absolutely ruined. Though we saw each other often, it was agony for all three of us.
But Ethan…maybe because we were almost the same age, maybe because we’d been pals at Johnson & Wales before he fixed me up with Jimmy, but whatever the reason, he was the only one who didn’t make me feel worse.
In those first few black months, Ethan was a rock. He found this very apartment, right below his. He bought me a PlayStation and we spent far too many hours racing cars and shooting each other on the screen. He cooked for me, knowing I’d eat Sno—Balls and Ring Dings if left to my own devices, coming down with a pan of eggplant parmigiana, chicken marsala, meat loaf. We’d watch movies, and he didn’t care if I’d forgotten to shower for the past couple of days. If I cried in front of him, Ethan would patiently take me in his arms, stroke my hair and tell me that someday, we were both going to be okay and if I didn’t stop blubbering on his shirt, he was going to fit me with a shock collar and start using it.
Then he’d head out for another week of traveling and schmoozing, which seemed to be what he was paid so handsomely to do. He’d e—mail me dirty jokes, bring me tacky little souvenirs from whatever city he was in, send pictures of himself doing those stupid daredevil things he did—helicopter
