Read Wrong About the Guy for Free Online Page B

prompted.
    I shrugged. “And so he’s destined to be my husband. I’m just not sure which husband. I don’t want him to be my first, because obviously that one’s not going to last—”
    â€œObviously.”
    â€œAnd I want my last husband to be much younger than I am so he can take care of me when I’m dying. Obviously.”
    â€œObviously.”
    â€œMaybe number three?”
    â€œWould that put him in the middle? Or still toward the beginning?”
    â€œI’m hurt,” I said. “How many husbands do youthink I’m planning to have? I’m not that kind of girl.”
    â€œObviously,” he said.
    I nudged his elbow with mine. “Come on. Let’s go down to the water.”
    When we reached the sand, I kicked off my flip-flops and said, “You’d better take your loafers off, too, unless you like gritty shoes.”
    He removed his shoes and socks, then cuffed his pants. “How stupid do I look?” he asked as he straightened up.
    â€œYou don’t want to know.”
    â€œâ€˜Don’t worry, George, you look fine. Not stupid at all . ’”
    â€œMy mama didn’t raise no liars.”
    â€œJust . . . come on.” We left our shoes and he led the way down to the edge of the water. We stood there in the semidarkness, hearing the waves better than we could see them. The water looked black at this hour. Black with white frills that caught the moonlight. The few couples I could see were spread out along the beach, as far from one another as they could be, greedy for privacy.
    â€œWhy is the ocean so wonderful?” I asked after we’d gazed in contented silence for a while.
    â€œI don’t know,” George said. “People can’t survive without water, so maybe we’re biologically programmed to want to be near it.”
    â€œYou just managed to suck all the poetry right out of this.”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œIt’s okay. Doesn’t this make you want to do something?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI don’t know.” I circled my hands in the air, frustrated by my inability to put the feeling into words. “There’s something about how beautiful it is—and how the waves look—and the sound, too . . . and it’s like we should go out and build castles or fight evil or just run around in circles screaming. Don’t you feel that?”
    â€œYeah,” he said. “It’s so big and we’re so small. It makes you want to be bigger. To matter.”
    â€œRight.” I turned and we started walking along the shore. “The sand’s freezing. My feet are getting numb.”
    â€œYou want to go back inside?”
    â€œSoon. Not yet.” I glanced sideways at him. “So what could we do that would matter? Build hospitals? Slay evil dictators? Write the great American novel?”
    â€œWe could write the great American novel about an evil dictator while sitting in a hospital,” he said. “But what we’ll really do is walk away and forget that feeling within about five minutes and end up like the rest of the world, working any job we can get and leading lives of quiet desperation.”
    â€œYou’re a cynic.”
    â€œNo—a realist.”
    I glanced up at the resort and saw a couple strolling toward the ocean, holding hands. “Isn’t that Mom and Luke?”
    â€œI think so,” George said, and we headed toward them. There were a few other couples trailing them, acting all casual and indifferent but clearly sneaking glimpses at the famous TV star. At least they were all keeping a respectful distance.
    â€œWhat are you two doing down here?” Mom asked as we came together.
    â€œI had to get out of that room,” I said. “Jacob threw a fit—he was screaming and throwing his food. I ran into George in the lobby and we thought we’d see what the beach was