Jennifer Weiner - Good in Bed

Have you seen it? asked Samantha.

I leaned close to my computer so my edit or wouldnt hear me on a personal call.

Seen what?

Oh, nothing. Never mind. Well talk when you get home.

Seen what? I asked again.

Nothing, Samantha repeated.

Samantha, you have never once called me in the middle of the day about nothing. Now come on. Spill.

Samantha sighed. Okay, but remember: Dont shoot the messenger.

Now I was getting worried.

Moxie. The new issue. Cannie, you have to go get one right now.

Why? Whats up? Am I one of the Fashion Faux Pas?

Just go to the lobby and get it. Ill hold.

This was important. Samantha was, in addition to being my best friend, also an associate at Lewis, Dommel, and Fenick. Samantha put people on hold, or had her assistant tell them she was in a meeting. Samantha herself did not hold. Its a sign of weakness, shed told me. I felt a small twinge of anxiety work its way down my spine.

I took the elevator to the lobby of the Philadelphia Examiner, waved at the security guard, and walked to the small newsstand, where I found Moxie on the rack next to its sister publications, Cosmo and Glamour and Mademoiselle. It was hard to miss, what with the super-model in sequins beneath headlines blaring Come Again: Multiple Orgasm Made Easy! and Ass-Tastic! Four Butt Blasters to Get your Rear in Gear! After a quick minute of deliberation, I grabbed a small bag of chocolate M amp;Ms, paid the gum-chomping cashier, and went back upstairs.

Samantha was still holding. Page 132, she said.

I sat, eased a few M amp;Ms into my mouth, and flipped to page 132, which turned out to be Good in Bed, Moxies regular male-written feature designed to help the average reader understand what her boyfriend was up to or wasnt up to, as the case might be. At first my eyes wouldnt make sense of the letters. Finally, they unscrambled. Loving a Larger Woman, said the headline, By Bruce Guberman. Bruce Guberman had been my boyfriend for just over three years, until wed decided to take a break three months ago. And the Larger Woman, I could only assume, was me.

You know how in scary books a character will say, I felt my heart stop? Well, I did. Really. Then I felt it start to pound again, in my wrists, my throat, my fingertips. The hair at the back of my neck stood up. My hands felt icy. I could hear the blood roaring in my ears, as I read the first line of the article: Ill never forget the day I found out my girlfriend weighed more than I did.

Samanthas voice sounded like it was coming from far, far away. Cannie? Cannie, are you there?

Ill kill him! I choked.

Take deep breaths, Samantha counseled. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Betsy, my editor, cast a puzzled look across the partition that separated our desks. Are you all right? she mouthed. I squeezed my eyes shut. My headset had somehow landed on the carpet. Breathe! I could hear Samantha say, her voice a tinny echo from the floor. I was wheezing, gasping. I could feel chocolate and bits of candy shell on my teeth. I could see the quote theyd lifted, in bold-faced pink letters that screamed out from the center of the page. Loving a larger woman, Bruce had written, is an act of courage in our world.

I cant believe this! I cant believe he did this! Ill kill him!

By now Betsy had circled around to my desk and was trying to peer over my shoulder at the magazine in my lap, and Gabby, my evil coworker, was looking our way, her beady brown eyes squinting for signs of trouble, thick fingers poised over her keyboard so that she could instantly e-mail the bad news to her pals. I slammed the magazine closed. I took a successful deep breath, and waved Betsy back to her seat.

Samantha was waiting. You didnt know?

Didnt know what? That he thought dating me was an act of courage? I attempted a sardonic snort. He should try being me.

So you didnt know he got a job at Moxie.

I flipped to the front, where Contributors were listed in thumbnail profiles beneath arty black-and-white head shots. And there was Bruce, with his shoulder-length hair blowing in what was assuredly artificial wind. He looked, I thought uncharitably, like Yanni. Good in Bed columnist Bruce Guberman joins the staff of Moxie this month. A free-lance writer from New Jersey, Guberman is currently at work on his first novel.

His first novel? I said. Well, shrieked, maybe. Heads turned. Over the partition, Betsy was looking worried again, and Gabby had started typing. That lying sack of shit!

I didnt know he was writing a novel, said Samantha, no doubt desperate to change the subject.

He can barely write a thank-you note, I said, flipping back to page 132.

I never thought of myself as a chubby chaser, I read. But when I met C., I fell for her wit, her laugh, her sparkling eyes. Her body, I decided, was something I could learn to live with.

Ill KILL HIM!

So kill him already and shut up about it, muttered Gabby, shoving her inch-thick glasses up her nose.

Betsy was on her feet again, and my hands were shaking, and suddenly somehow there were M amp;Ms all over the floor, crunching beneath the rollers of my chair.

I gotta go, I told Samantha, and hung up.

Im fine, I said to Betsy. She gave me a worried look, then retreated.

It took me three tries to get Bruces number right, and when his voice mail calmly informed me that he wasnt available to take my call, I lost my nerve, hung up, and called Samantha back.

Good in bed, my ass, I said. I ought to call his editor. Its false advertising. I mean, did they check his references? Nobody called me.

Thats the anger talking, said Samantha. Ever since she started dating her yoga instructor, shes become very philosophical.

Chubby chaser? I said. I could feel tears prickling behind my eyelids. How could he do this to me?

Did you read the whole thing?

Just the first little bit.

Maybe you better not read any more.

It gets worse?

Samantha sighed. Do you really want to know?

No. Yes. No. I waited. Samantha waited. Yes. Tell me.

Samantha sighed again. He calls you Lewinsky-esque.

With regards to my body or my blow jobs? I tried to laugh, but it came out as a strangled sob.

And he goes on and on about your let me find it. Your amplitude.

Oh, God.

He said you were succulent, Samantha said helpfully. And zaftig. Thats not a bad word, is it?

God, the whole time we went out, he never said anything

You dumped him. Hes mad at you, said Samantha.

I didnt dump him! I cried. We were just taking a break! And he agreed that it was a good idea!

Well, what else could he do? asked Samantha. You say, I think we need some time apart, and he either agrees with you and walks away clinging to whatever shreds of dignity hes got left, or begs you not to leave him, and looks pathetic. He chose the dignity cling.

I ran my hands through my chin-length brown hair and tried to gauge the devastation. Who else had seen this? Who else knew that C. was me? Had he shown all his friends? Had my sister seen it? Had, God forbid, my mother?