It took about fifteen minutes to change the tire. Jennifer (Jennifer?) didn’t have a true spare, just one of those temporary tires that new cars come with. She thanked him and gave him back what was left of his dinner.

  “That’s just a doughnut,” he said. “You should have your tire fixed as soon as you can.”

  “Right,” she said. “I will.” She didn’t seem to be paying attention. He felt like she just wanted him to leave. And he wanted to leave. He waited for her to get into her car and turn on the engine before he walked away. But when he looked back, her car hadn’t moved. He stopped walking.

  He wondered why Jennifer—if this was Jennifer, the Jennifer—was crying, what had happened. Maybe she’d gotten into a fight with Mitch. Maybe she’d started a fight with Mitch. But there was no sign of it in her e-mail. Maybe …

  Oh.

  Oh.

  When was the last time she’d mentioned …Why hadn’t he noticed …He should have guessed when the e-mails stopped, by the way they were talking, by what they weren’t saying.

  The baby. He should have realized.

  He was so selfish. All he’d cared about was finding himself in their conversations. Not that it would have mattered if he had noticed. Not that he could have said he was sorry or sent her a card.

  Lincoln walked back and knocked on her window. It was fogged over. She wiped a circle clear, saw him, and rolled it down.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I really feel like I should call your husband.”

  “He’s not home,” she said.

  “A friend, then, or your mom or something.”

  “I promise, I’ll be fine.”

  He couldn’t leave her alone. Especially now that he knew or thought he knew what was wrong. “If somebody that I cared about was crying alone in a parking lot,” he said, wishing he could tell her that she was somebody he cared about, “at this time of night, I’d want somebody to call me.”

  “Look, you’re right. I’m not fine, but I will be. I’m leaving now. I promise.”

  He wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t be driving at all. The streets were a mess, she was a mess …But he couldn’t tell her what to do. He couldn’t say anything to comfort her. He handed her his McDonald’s bag. “Okay. Just. Please go home.”

  She drove away then. Lincoln watched her leave the parking lot and get on the freeway. When she was out of sight, he ran into The Courier building. He was so wet and cold, he took off his muddy shoes at his desk, and tried to figure out which of the ceiling vents was putting out the most heat so he could huddle below it. He ended up eating dinner out of the vending machines. (He’d have to tell Doris that the sandwiches seemed to be going bad a few days before their expiration dates.) He wondered if Jennifer had gotten home okay and whether he was right about what happened. It might not be anything so terrible. It might not even be the same Jennifer.

  LINCOLN SPENT THE night at his apartment again. It was still icy out, and it was closer to drive there than it was to drive home. He thought about calling his mom to tell her he was okay, that he hadn’t been in an accident. She hadn’t mentioned it yet, the fact that he wasn’t coming home every night. Maybe she was trying to give him space. What if he didn’t have to move out? What if he could just ease out…?

  CHAPTER 73

  From: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder

  To: Beth Fremont

  Sent: Wed, 02/09/2000 10:08 AM

  Subject: I think I met Your Cute Guy.

  Unless there are two dark-haired, practically Herculean, cute guys wandering around this place.

  <> Met? You met him?

  <> Yes. Last night. When I was leaving work.

  <> Are you stringing this story out for your own amusement?

  <> I’m not sure I want to tell you at all. It’s the kind of story that might make you worry about me, and I really don’t want that.

  <> Too late. I’m already worried about you. Tell me—in detail.

  <> Well …

  I worked a swing shift last night, which meant I had to park in the gravel lot under the freeway, and I didn’t get out of here until 9, and it was cold out, and sleety and nasty, and when I finally got to my car, I had a flat tire. (Already, this sounds like the opening scene of a Law & Order episode, right?)

  So …I immediately took out my phone to call Mitch, but it was dead. Right then, I should have just walked back to the building and called a tow truck or something. But instead I decided to change the tire myself. I mean, I’ve changed a tire before, I’m not completely helpless. As I was getting out the jack, I had this flash of “Maybe I shouldn’t do this in my condition.”

  And then I remembered that I’m not in any kind of condition anymore.

  It took me 20 minutes to get the first two lug nuts off. The third wouldn’t budge. I even tried standing on the wrench. It went spinning off and slammed into my shin. I was muddy by this time and soaked through and crying. Somewhat hysterically.

  Then I see this huge shadow of a person walking toward me, and all I can think is, “I hope he doesn’t rape me because I’m supposed to wait six weeks before having intercourse.”

  The huge shadow says, “Are you okay?”

  I say, “Yes,” hoping he’ll just keep moving. Then he gets close enough for me to see that he’s cute—cute in kind of a specific, unexpected way; rough-hewn, one might say—and also wearing an unfashionable denim jacket. I immediately think, “This is Beth’s Cute Guy,” and I stop being scared of him, which is pretty funny when you think about it because, for all of your crushing, neither of us knows anything about this guy. And it might not have even been him.

  Anyway, he changed my tire for me.

  It took him eight minutes, tops. I just stood there, holding his dinner (McDonald’s) and watched. And cried. I must have looked wildly pathetic because he said, “I have some French fries in there if you want them.” I thought that was such a weird thing to offer, but frankly, I’m exactly the sort of person to be comforted by French fries, so I ate them.

  And then—seriously, minutes later—he was done (and also covered in mud, the whole lot was one gray puddle). He told me that I should still get my tire fixed and walked away.

  So I got into my car, turned on the heat …and started crying even harder than I was crying before. Harder than I’d cried since it happened. I don’t know if I’ve ever cried like that before. (Maybe when my dad left.) I was shaking and making these horrible, hollow elephant noises. I kept thinking about the word “despair” and how I’d only ever understood it before from reading it in context.

  I was pretty far gone when there was a knock at my window. Your Cute Guy. He was still standing there. He seemed embarrassed by the whole situation, almost physically pained to have to deal with me. He said, “I feel like I should call your husband,” all firm and determined. (I was just a little bit hurt that he assumed I had a husband. It was kind of like being called “madame” when you still feel like a “mademoiselle.”)

  I kept saying that I would be fine, and then he said, “If somebody that I cared about was crying alone in a parking lot this late at night, I would want somebody to call me.”

  That’s just what he said. Isn’t that nice?

  I told him that he was right, that I wasn’t fine, but that I would be, and I promised to go home. For a minute, it seemed like he wasn’t going to let me leave, like he was just going to keep standing there with his hand on my window. Which would have made sense—my eyes were swollen to slits, and I probably seemed like I was ready to drive off a cliff.

  But he nodded his head, handed me his McDonald’s bag (?) and walked away.

  I did leave then. I went home and ate his two cheeseburgers (extra pickles) while I was waiting for Mitch, who, I should note, was actually relieved to see me crying. I think he was beginning to think I was either inhumanly cold or silently imploding.

  I pretty much cried all night. I looked so puffy and splotchy when I came in to work this morning that I told Danielle I’d had an allergic reaction to shellfish.

  <> You should have stayed home.

  <> I don’t want anyone to start wondering why I’ve been taking so many sick days.

  <> If they knew, they’d gladly give you some time off.

  <> I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. Actually, that’s not true, I feel like the entire world should feel sorry for me. I’m pathetic and I’m miserable. But I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me if it means they have to think about my uterus.

  <> Do you feel better today? Relieved to have let some of it out?

  <> I don’t know. I still don’t want to talk about it.

  <> But we can talk about My Cute Guy, right?

  <> Ad nauseam.

  <> I can’t believe you met him. I’ve been following him around for months without making more than passing eye contact, and you actually met him. And you didn’t just meet. You had a meet-cute. Is it warped for me to be jealous of you right now?

  <> What’s a meet-cute?

  <> It’s the moment in a movie when the romantic leads meet. They never just meet normally. It’s never like, “Harry, meet Sally. Sally, this is Harry.” They always meet in a cute way, like, “Hey, you just got chocolate in my peanut butter!” / “What are you talking about? You just got peanut butter in my chocolate!”

  Having a handsome man rescue you (crying in the rain in the parking lot), change your tire, and share his French fries, that’s very meet-cute.

  Damn it, I was supposed to have the meet-cute.

  <> Your meet-cute would have gone like this, “Hey, you got chocolate in my peanut butter!” / “Sorry, I have a boyfriend.”

  Also, I feel like I should point out that it was freezing rain. Freezing rain isn’t cute.

  <> You still got to see him with wet hair …

  So, break it down for me, what was your lasting impression of him? It seems like you thought he was weird.

  <> I wouldn’t say weird. I would say awkward, kind of shy. He seemed really uncomfortable—like only his chivalry and common decency were keeping him from walking away.

  <> So, awkward, chivalrous, decent …

  <> And very nice. It was a kind thing to stop and to stay until I pulled myself together. A lot of guys would have kept walking or, at best, called 911.

  <> Awkward, chivalrous, decent, kind …

  <> And really, really cute. You weren’t exaggerating. Not Sears-model cute. More of an old-fashioned cute. And he got cuter, the more I looked at him. He’s built like a tank. I half expected him to lift my car with his hands.

  <> Built like a tank, dressed like he just won the science fair. How cute is that guy.

  <> Very cute.

  <> So, I’m totally going to start parking in the gravel lot. You know that, right?

  <> Don’t. That parking lot is spooky. Stick with the break room.

  CHAPTER 74

  I’M STILL HER cute guy, Lincoln thought, as he drove home.

  He went to the gym early the next day and ran until his knees started to buckle.

  I’m still hers.

  “LINCOLN! DUDE! YOU’RE alive!”

  “Justin, hey.”

  “Sorry to call you at work, but I’ve been calling your house so much, your mom probably thinks I’m trying to get into her pants. I feel like I haven’t seen you since the sixth grade.”

  “Yeah,” Lincoln said, “I haven’t been …” He wasn’t avoiding Justin. He was avoiding Sacajawea.

  “Do you remember how big you were in the sixth grade? You were ‘My Motherfucking Bodyguard.’ Look, you’re going out tonight. With me and Dena.”

  “I have to work tonight.”

  “We’ll wait up. We don’t turn into pumpkins at midnight. I don’t have to work tomorrow. Dena does, but she can get by on less than eight hours …Aw, you can, too,” Justin said. Dena must be right there. “You don’t need eight straight to suck spit out of people’s mouths …I meant with a vacuum … Hey, Lincoln, we’ll see you at the Village Inn, all right? I’ll see if I can get our usual table.”

  “Yeah, all right. I can get there by one.”

  “One it is.”

  JUSTIN AND DENA were just getting their orders when Lincoln got there. They’d already ordered him his French silk.

  “That pie is on me,” Justin said, “and so is the next piece. We’re celebrating.”

  “What’s the occasion?” Lincoln asked.

  “Show him, honey,” Justin said.

  Dena held up a hand with a ring the size of her knuckle. There must be money in hospital marketing.

  “It’s beautiful,” Lincoln said. “Congratulations.” He leaned over to clap Justin on the shoulder. “Congratulations.”

  “I’m as happy as a pig in shit,” Justin said, “and part of that is thanks to you.”

  “No.”

  “Yeah. You were my wingman, first of all, and then you knocked some sense into me when I nearly let this beautiful woman slip out of my hands. Don’t you remember? You called me on all my bullshit about not wanting to settle down?”

  “You would have figured it out on your own,” Lincoln said, “you were in love.”

  “Maybe so,” Justin said, “but I still want to thank you, and I …Dena and I would like to ask you to be in our wedding.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Would you be a groomsman?”

  “Sure,” Lincoln said, surprised. And touched. “Sure, I’d love to.”

  “Well, all right,” Justin said. He took a big bite of mashed potatoes. “All right! I haven’t even told you the best part. Guess who’s playing at our reception?” He didn’t wait for Lincoln to guess. “Sacajawea!”

  “That’s the best part?” Dena asked.

  “That’s the best part besides the marriage part,” Justin said.

  “Sacajawea … ,” Lincoln said.

  “Damn straight. I got in touch with them through the manager at the Ranch Bowl and talked to the lead singer. He said they’d play a fucking bar mitzvah if we could cover their fee.”

  “It’s going to cost more than the open bar,” Dena said.

  “It’s going to be awesome,” Justin said.

  They told him more about the wedding. It was going to be a big wedding party. Dena had lots of sorority sisters. Lincoln could see how Justin might need to dig pretty deep to round up enough groomsmen.

  “When’s the big day?” Lincoln asked.

  “October seventh.”

  “We’re shopping for a house now,” Justin said.

  “We’re shopping for a barbecue,” Dena said.

  “A grill,” Justin said, “and I don’t see why that’s such a big deal. I need to know what the grill looks like before we find the house, so I can picture it on the deck. I don’t want to move into a house and find out six months down the line that the fucking grill won’t fit. Why would you want to start our life together making compromises?”

  Dena rolled her eyes and signaled to the waitress for another Diet Coke.

  “We’ll have you over for steak, Lincoln,” Dena said.

  “Fuck that,” Justin said. “I’m calling you when we move. Dena’s got a leather sectional that’s going to take three grown men and a rhinoceros.”

  Lincoln figured he was the rhinoceros.

  “It’s not that big,” Dena said.

  “I’d be happy to help,” Lincoln said. “Really. Congratulations. Both of you.”

  HE SPENT THE next three nights at his apartment. He bought a mattress and a box spring and a lamp. He bought a toothbrush cup and a soap dish and soap that smelled like vetiver. He stood for twenty minutes in the bedding aisle at Target, trying to choose a manly sheet set, then picked the ones with a violet pattern, because he liked violets and who else was ever going to see his sheets, anyway?

  CHAPTER 75

  From: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder

  To: Beth Fremont

  Sent: Wed, 02/16/2000 10:00 AM

  Subject: Greetings from the most self-centered person in the world.

  I realized last night, as I was lying awake telling myself what a despicable person I am, that I really am a despicable person. I’m at the very least a terrible friend. In all these weeks, I haven’t stepped outside of my wretched self even once to ask you about Kiley’s wedding. I am so sorry.

  So please, tell me. How was the wedding?

  <> Why are you lying awake, thinking that you’re a terrible person?

  <> To keep my mind occupied when I can’t sleep. Some people count sheep. I self-loathe.

  <> I can see why you might have trouble sleeping right now, but I can’t see why you would be hating yourself.

  <> You can’t? Really?

  <> No. What happened was terrible, but you’re not terrible.

  <> What happened happened because I’m terrible. How was the wedding?

  <> No, it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. Do you really believe that bad things happen to people because they deserve it?

  <> In general, no. In this case, yes.

  Remember when my midwife told me to talk to the baby, that it could feel my emotions and intent? And I said that was crazy, and you said you thought there was probably something to it?