Read The Men I Didn't Marry for Free Online

asks.
    “He’s in the city tonight,” I say, not lying. Because why should I say any more? I’m not ready for all the sympathetic clucking and the “oh, my poor darling”s that my story is sure to elicit. Everyone will feel bad for me, and they’ll even be sincere when they offer advice and names of divorce lawyers. But then tomorrow I’ll be the lead item to gossip about over morning lattes.
    I head toward a group of parents standing together—all of them the moms and dads of friends Emily made in her high school advanced placement classes. After the Ivy League-bound kids clicked, the grown-ups became a clique, too. I look around and realize that all the adults at the party are grouped according to their children’s abilities. The parents of the kids who starred in all the school plays are standing by the bar, gesturing theatrically to each other. The jocks’ parents are raucously drinking beer in the kitchen and jabbing each other good-naturedly. And those whose progeny were the school potheads are suspiciously gathered outside on the patio, doing God-knows-what. Lighting up and talking about rehab?
    “Hi, Hallie,” says the chorus of academically inclined parents as I join their circle. We kiss all around.
    “Where’s Bill?” asks Steff Rothchild (mother of Devon, now at Cornell.)
    “Yes, where’s Bill?” echoes Amanda Michaels-Locke (mother of twins Michael and Michaela, Princeton and Hofstra. Michaela had a tough senior year.)
    “Bill, that’s right. I haven’t seen him on our usual 7:42 train this week,” pipes up Jennifer Morton (Rory’s mother. Duke).
    Bill, Bill, Bill. This is the conversation I get from the intellectual parents? Maybe I’ll go out to the porch.
    “He’s in the city,” I say as brightly as I can muster, four words that I’m hoping will get me through the night.
    “Oh, working late,” clucks Steff. There’s that judgmental cluck, and she doesn’t even know the real news. “You can’t let him do that. When the children are gone, hubbies and wives have to stay closer to each other.” She tucks her arm smugly through her husband’s, a woman who’s clearly spent too many afternoons watching Dr. Phil. Her Richard takes a gulp of his vodka tonic.
    “That’s right,” whispers Jennifer. “We don’t want our men straying.”
    The vodka tonic must have gone down the wrong pipe because Richard starts coughing.
    A tiny smile crosses Amanda’s face, but she puts her arm around me. “So everything’s good with you and Bill?” she asks solicitously. “You aren’t missing Emily and Adam too much?”
    “We’re perfect,” I lie.
    Just then, redheaded Darlie rushes over, decked out in four-inch-high Jimmy Choo sandals and a Gucci miniskirt so tiny there’s probably barely room for the designer label. Her half-dozen gold bracelets clang loudly at her wrist and, in its own way, her diamond necklace is no less quiet. But, then again, nothing about Darlie, the third wife of import-export king Carl Borden, is subtle.
    Including her reason for joining us.
    “Hallie, I heard about you and Bill,” she hollers so shrilly that Rosalie’s golden retriever, lying in the corner, yaps in pain.
    Is it my imagination, or does the whole room stop to find out what daring Darlie has to say?
    “Dumped, dumped, dumped,” she exclaims, clamping her hand on me so firmly that her crimson-colored talons dig into the flesh of my upper arm. “I can’t believe Bill left you like this.”
    Now the parents who had been grouped together by their children’s activities have a more common interest. Me. They all drift closer to get the scoop.
    “What in heaven’s name are you talking about? Bill’s just in the city tonight,” says Steff. I can’t decide if she’s rushing to my defense or egging Darlie on.
    “Am I the first to know?” asks Darlie proudly, scanning the room. She shakes her head. “Bill leaving and moving in with that Ashlee. Ashlee with two Es. I myself was horrified