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mall while he’s eating a bean burrito and wearing short
shorts. It’s all wrong, and once you see it, you can never
unsee it.
“Richard left me a month ago.” Aunt Marty weeps.
“He’s been seeing another woman for a year and a half. And
she’s older than I am! He actually told me that she understands
him. Can you believe it? I mean, how clichéd is that?”
My eyes open wide. “But I saw the way he looked at
you!”
“He now looks at someone else that way,” she says
through her tears.
Celeste, I notice, is still patting Aunt Marty’s shoulder.
“I’m a total fraud,” Aunt Marty says through her tears.
“All I can do is spout platitudes that my editor writes for
me.”
“You’re not spouting plati . . . whatevers,” Frankie says,
reaching past me to pat Aunt Marty’s other shoulder.
“Platitudes,” she blubbers. “Stupid, meaningless sayings.”
I gulp. “You mean, men don’t live to make us happy?”
Not to be heartless, but the last thing I need to hear is
that my man expert is having man trouble. I’m not proud of
this, but I find myself wondering if the “Perry Plan” will fall
to pieces if “Martine on Men” really doesn’t know men.
Like I said, I’m not proud of it.
Aunt Marty sniffs. Truthfully, it doesn’t help much. I
rummage through my backpack for a tissue.
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