Jennifer Weiner - Good in Bed

“Have you seen it?” asked Samantha.

I leaned close to my computer so my edit or wouldn’t hear me on a personal call.

“Seen what?”

“Oh, nothing. Never mind. We’ll 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: Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Now I was getting worried.

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

“Why? What’s up? Am I one of the Fashion Faux Pas?”

“Just go to the lobby and get it. I’ll 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. “It’s a sign of weakness,” she’d 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;M’s, paid the gum-chomping cashier, and went back upstairs.

Samantha was still holding. “Page 132,” she said.

I sat, eased a few M amp;M’s into my mouth, and flipped to page 132, which turned out to be “Good in Bed,” Moxie’s regular male-written feature designed to help the average reader understand what her boyfriend was up to… or wasn’t up to, as the case might be. At first my eyes wouldn’t 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 we’d 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: “I’ll never forget the day I found out my girlfriend weighed more than I did.”

Samantha’s voice sounded like it was coming from far, far away. “Cannie? Cannie, are you there?”

I’ll 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 they’d 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 can’t believe this! I can’t believe he did this! I’ll 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 didn’t know?”

“Didn’t know what? That he thought dating me was an act of courage?” I attempted a sardonic snort. “He should try being me.”

“So you didn’t 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 didn’t 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.”

“I’ll 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;M’s all over the floor, crunching beneath the rollers of my chair.

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

“I’m fine,” I said to Betsy. She gave me a worried look, then retreated.

It took me three tries to get Bruce’s number right, and when his voice mail calmly informed me that he wasn’t 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. It’s false advertising. I mean, did they check his references? Nobody called me.”

“That’s the anger talking,” said Samantha. Ever since she started dating her yoga instructor, she’s 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. That’s not a bad word, is it?”