Rita Wolf (5:25)

Oh, sure.

Jane Kaczmarek (5:26)

As long as he's okay with you disclosing to New York State that he's been taking the HOV lane solo since 2011 and has 57 unpaid parking tickets. Number six, get to know his family. Does he have siblings? Are they single? Can you introduce me? Look, I'm between marriages right now, so you gotta help me out. Number seven, maintain your own life. Quickest way to strain a relationship is by expecting your partner to meet all your needs. So develop several side flings. Someone at work, someone next door, someone in another city. Someone you can get breakfast with, someone you can get lunch with. Someone you can split the Uber with from breakfast to lunch. The key is never be alone with your thoughts. Number eight, you gotta trust that things are gonna work out okay. You know, I mean, at the end of the day, you can't control everything. You can only be in the moment. So tell your husband whatever he wants to hear, constantly change the password on your phone, and have Uncle Gary, who likes to stick his nose where it doesn't belong, conveniently disappear. Okay, that's it. Remember, you can always come to me for advice. Your aunt is an objective third party and I don't have any boundaries, so we can talk in detail about what the sex was like. Also my second example, he's private eye and he owes me a favor, so let me know if you want him to, you know, snoop around in anybody's trash. That's it. It's over. That's it.

Meg Wolitzer (7:19)

That was Jane Kaczmarek with relationship advice from your aunt who has been divorced six times by Meghana Indurti and Tyler Fowler. And listen, if you're a Gary or, you know, a Gary, write in. Let us know about the relative trustworthiness of Gary's in general. We'd appreciate the clarification. Here's the part of the show where I myself might consider trying to offer our listeners some relationship advice or maybe tell a story about relationship advice that I once received and how helpful it was. However, the sad truth is, I've got nothing. That said, there is some good relationship advice given out in short stories, even ones that don't seem very advicey on the surface. For instance, in the Gift of the Magi O, Henry sort of advises not to sell your watch or your hair around Christmas time because you never know what your partner might be getting you as a present and you could easily ruin everything. Next, Something by Mira Jacob. Her books include the Sleepwalker's Guide to Dancing and a graphic novel titled Good A Memoir in Conversations. This piece about coping with grief and the voices we find when we need them we commissioned from Jacob directly, and it was included in our first ever short story collection, Small Odysseys. Rita Wolf performed this story. She's a regular onstage at her home theater of Symphony Space and many of New York's big Off Broadway houses. Her recent credits include A Delicate Balance by Edward Albee and Escaped by Carol Churchill. And now Rita Wolf brings us Death by Printer by Mira Jacob.

Rita Wolf (9:10)

The first time she finds Terry Fix It303 on YouTube, Shilpa is near tears. The chemical stink of her jammed printer burns the air, and for a moment she hopes this is it, the moment she'll begin to die in earnest, that in two years some pinch eyed medical examiner will write down metastatic lung cancer and in 70 more people at dinner parties will moan they used printing cartridges back then. Sad for their dumber earlier animal selves. Stealing my death, is it? She hears Asmat say, because this is the first survival skill Shilpa's mastered in the months since her wife of 30 years died. The ability to hear things Asmat hasn't said. Her second survival skill is never saying anything back. Asmat would know how to fix the printer, how to save the Harrod ficus, how to stop the live wire of ants in the pantry. Shilpa only knows how to Google and clicks on one of five videos that come up when she searches Epson 720 printer jam. The high sticky child's voice startles her. Hi, I'm Terry and I fix things. If your Epson HP720 is jammed, watch this video. On the screen, a flashing printer exactly like hers. The camera wobbles as if held by a drunk to make the paper come out. Do like this, small fingers press two buttons near the top. Shilpa squints. For how long? For a long, long, long, long time, the voice says. Shilpa pauses the video, walks to the printer, pushes the buttons. She thinks about how in the end she'd held down the morphine drip for whole minutes as Asmat gnashed, hating the nurse who said it was unnecessary, that doses were timed and your sister is.

Santino Fontana (11:11)

Getting what she needs.

Rita Wolf (11:13)

The printer beeps, makes a whirring noise, and from some deep crevice produces a crumpled sheet of paper. It sits in the tray, miraculous as a newborn. Shilpa blinks at it, prize rising painfully in her chest. It's been so long since she fixed anything. She walks straight out of the room, makes a real dinner, and takes a bath to try to make the feeling last. But later, as she hears low laughter from the apartment next door, she remembers the last time she tried to touch her wife. Asmat's dry grimace, her own hasty retreat, how they disappeared into their phones after Shilpa's family, she is sure, would have been vindicated at last. What better fate for the daughter who'd chosen Berkeley over Chennai, that useless Muslim woman over all of them. Shilpa gets up, goes down the hall, turns on the light. The paper is still there, the video frozen. She hits play and the view spins to a boy's face. He looks tannish, all freckles and gums See? Fixed it. He smiles. I'm Terry, and I fix things. Thanks for watching. Subscribe to Terry Fixit 303 for more. The screen prompts Shilpa snorts. Subscribe to what? A click finds 12 more videos, among them how to unlock the bathroom door from the outside. How to get chocolate off the couch. How to order at Subway. How to vacuum a vacuum. Single digits Views the last posted over four years ago. She subscribes. Tuesday nights are ice cream nights. Shilpa sits in the car outside 7 11, scanning for former students or worse, couple friends who might feel compelled to invite her to dinner, like she was the one everyone liked to the one who could explain Titan's underground ocean or how we only see stars as they existed in the past because of how long it takes their light to reach us. People like you, asmat insists. Shilpa leaves the car. Inside, she finds her pint of pistachio and almost runs into the large man wearing an Orbit Zone sweatshirt. Greg, she says. At the funeral, Asmat's boss had given a speech about Asmat's giddiness on launch days, her contagious laugh. Now he looks confused. I'm Asmat Hassan's shilpi. He winces. Of course. Good to see you. You too, she says, unsure. Greg looks older to her, blurrier. How are Catherine and the boys? Fine. He swallows. Good. Well, tell them I said she left me. What? Shilpa smiles, hoping he's joking. Greg's face turns pink, then pinker. Katherine, last month. I'm sorry. Oh, it's. You know. Shilpa doesn't know. She doesn't want to know. Still, she hears about the college ex boyfriend, the not really work trip the boy's petitioning to live with him. God damn Facebook, greg growls, and she realizes he's drunk. I should go, she says. Sure, sure. He nods. Well, I hope. But she doesn't hear what he hopes as she walks quickly to the cashier and then to her car, where the carton rolls across the passenger seat as she hurries home. How to change a light bulb is up first. Shilpa watches five seconds of Terry Fix It, 303 hovering over a socket before clicking out. How to unlock the bathroom door from the outside is next and oddly satisfying, her breath whooshing out as the boy pops the latch with a Starbucks card in how to do the laundry, he insists Oxiclean gets out everything, smiling like a paid idiot. She buys some the next day, stopping at Subway on her way home, where the grim teen asking Brad almost undoes her before she remembers Terry fix it 303, saying all it is is a bunch of choices. She eats the sum of hers in the parking lot. Soon she doesn't even watch the videos but listens to them on a constant loop. Terry Fix at 3:03, babbling from her home office as she makes dinner, folds her underwear, brushes her teeth. Nights she can't sleep. She plays how to Clean under the bed until the stars through her blinds grow soft. A month later, she's chopping garlic when she hears the sound of burglars breaking in. The noise comes from the back of the apartment, a tumult of shuffling and shushing. Shilpa grips her knife. She hears, then giggling, hold the camera still. She turns her head slowly to look down the hall. The computer screen flickers in her home office. She puts down the knife, feeling foolish. Terry Fixit 303 is four years older in the newly uploaded video. It's strange to see him on a park bench, thinner, greasier in his hands, a small folded piece of paper. Someone else holds the camera. Thank you to my one subscriber for subscribing, he says, then squeals. Hey, I'm Terry and I fix things. The camera holder guffaws. Shilpa flinches. Terry Fixit 303 pinches from a baggie in his lap and smiles hard into the lens. This, he says, is how to roll a J. That night Shilpa cannot sleep. She shouldn't have watched the whole video, but she had wanted to, she supposes, to see how he changed. The funny part was that he hadn't really his face blooming with light as he explained grinders indica, how to roll a perfect cylinder of something called Humboldt Kush. It was the end, though, that got her. Hope this helps you sleep, Shilpa ass mat, he said, blowing a plume of white, and she crimsoned while he laughed. It shouldn't have even mattered to her. It wouldn't have mattered to Asmat. Some strange boy turning into a smirking teenager was hardly a tragedy. Still, she churns with the memory of their names on his lips, butchered but together, said aloud for anyone to hear, the blessing of it. You should sleep, asmat says. She cannot. The cardboard box sits in the closet filled with things she hadn't known how to dispose of. Asmat's diplomas, her favorite scarf, the fancy vape they'd bought her for chemo, the rolling papers she'd preferred, the Bud suspended in a clear plastic box. Shilpa cracks the lid and her wife comes back to her swiftly, her big teeth, her thighs, the smell of sandalwood between them. She remembers their first kiss in college, finding Asmat's mouth with her own in the darkened stacks. How it felt like finding a revolution, an American college, a Pakistani girl. A kiss she told herself, wasn't a kiss, even when they didn't stop. Her first step toward a life so good and impossible she thought it might belong to someone else. Back in her home office, she plays the video with the sound off. She watches Terry Fix at 303's hands and moves her own. Her first attempt falls apart, her second too. Her third comes out a pouchy worm, too wet where her spit seals it, but she likes it anyway. Holding a scratch of smoke as the boy mouths, she Shilpa. Ass mat. Asmat, she corrects loudly and jumps. Her wife's name moves through the smoke and suddenly the room is alive with all the things Shilpa wants to tell her. How proud she was to be the revolution with Asmat. How hollow it feels without her. How Greg and Catherine have split up. How the bread at Subway smells like feet but doesn't taste like them. How the best part of how to vacuum a vacuum is watching a thing fix itself. How sometimes she thinks Terry Fixit303 is her very own North Star. The light from his videos leaving all those years ago to find her now.

Meg Wolitzer (20:31)

That was Death by Printer by Mira Jacob, performed by Rita Wolf. One of the elements of the story that I like is the sense that when someone dies, we can hear their voices in our heads so clearly and at the same time feel this insistent need to fill the hole they've left behind using whatever we have at our disposal. This sequence, loss memory and the attempt to repair is as human and inevitable as can be. When we return, a wedding full of joy, dancing and many ex boyfriends. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide. Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Our show today considers words of wisdom, who delivers them, and how good they really are. Of course, even when their characters are a bit dim, our authors are some of the brightest bulbs we know, and we know a lot of authors. If you want to glean your own advice from artists such as Miranda July or George Saunders, you're in the right place. Find more stories from our archive on your favorite podcasting platform or@pledshorts.org Our final piece on this show is by Katherine Dam. Her work has appeared in journals including Plowshares and the Iowa Review, and this story was her first to be included in the Best American Short Stories collection back in 2024. This tale of a wedding through the eyes of a plus one has been abridged with help from Dam so we'd have a chance to include it on the radio. Performing this story is Santino Fontana. He's a multi talented performer who won a Tony for his starring role in Tootsie on Broadway and is also remembered for TV and film roles including Crazy Ex Girlfriend and now Santino Fontana reads the Happiest Day of youf Life by Kathryn Dam.

Santino Fontana (22:59)

The happiest day of your life Wyatt and Nina were at Nina's ex boyfriend's wedding reception in the grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel. This was the second ex boyfriend's wedding of the summer. Wyatt had only ever had clean breaks with his girlfriends, but Nina's exes were often around, picking her up from the airport or accompanying her to the College Film Society to watch long foreign films, the kind that bored Wyatt to sleep. Nina's favorite was Greg, the groom, whom she dated the longest and who'd helped her quit smoking with long distance running. Wyatt's favorite was Rico, the sculptor, because Wyatt had never met anybody like him. In addition to a full bar, the wedding guests were encouraged to order a Greg, which was wine floated on a Manhattan since Greg was from New York, or a Lillian, which was vodka, triple sec and egg whites served up with a key lime garnish, since Lillian was from Florida. In Wyatt's opinion, this was a great wedding, and he had been to many great weddings in the last couple of years, most notably his and Nina's own. Greg and Lillian's was classic from start to finish. Lillian's father walked her down the aisle to Pachelbel's canon in D, and Greg's brother read from Corinthians 13, including the part about the noisy gong, which not everybody included. All of these choices were timeless for good reason. That said, Wyatt also loved when people got creative, when people couples wrote their own vows, or when the bride wore yellow or the groom wore Chuck Taylor's. The fact was, he just loved weddings. He wound his way through the numbered tables, careful not to spill the Greg he brought for Nina or the Lillian he'd gotten for himself. He'd barely had a chance to talk to Nina since the cocktail hour, had barely even seen her since the sprays of Queen Anne's lace in the extensive floral centerpiece had screened her from his view. Their table was composed of four couples, all seated apart, though their pairs were shifting and reuniting now that the main course was over. Nina's purse was still at her place, its silver chain reflecting the light of the many tea candles. He gazed over the table's post meal disorder, pleasantly tipsy until his eyes drew together on his place card. His name looked briefly unfamiliar, such that for a moment he wasn't even sure if it was spelled correctly in the elaborate calligraphy. It was like a knocked over tree. He tilted his head until the tree was right side up. Hoot. Hoot. The man two seats down was hooting at him. You look like an owl with your head like that. I'm Wyatt, said Wyatt. I think I had the pleasure of sitting next to your wife. Connie. Where is Connie? The man turned in his chair until he located her a few tables over, chatting with another couple. Look at her. Isn't she just the most beautiful woman you've ever seen? The man was red in the face and Wyatt couldn't tell if he was naturally ruddy or had been over served over dinner. Constance had described herself and her husband as a doctor philanthropist couple. They were older than the others at the table, and he knew that Nina would say this meant she and Wyatt had been at the bottom of the guest list like lone socks at the bottom of a drawer. Even though she and Greg were close friends, an intimacy she describes as informed by but separate from the one before. Nina had a lot of ex boyfriends. At least two were at the wedding. So are you the doctor or the philanthropist? Asked Wyatt. A little of column A, a little of column B. What type? The man thumped his chest with a loose fist. I'm a heart guy. I have a cousin who's in fellowship for pediatric cardiology. See, that's good. Even if you take the most cardiological of pediatricians, you end up with a pretty nice guy or woman, unlike your average cardiologist. People tell me all the time, John, you're the only cardiologist I know that's not an asshole. So, John, how are you enjoying the party? It's spectacular. Of course Paul and Jackie are gonna throw little Lillian a good one. This is a good place, too. A lot of history. I'm sure Wyatt had read about the venue beforehand. There's one famous ghost, the woman in red from the twenties. She found her husband cheating on her after a New Year's party and killed herself. He took a sip of Nina's Greg. Just one? Asked John. I'm surprised a place like this isn't more haunted. Have you ever seen a ghost? No, said Wyatt. But I'd like to. They're beautiful and diaphanous. So you have. All the time. We had this old house up in Winnetka with this one teenager in who was pretty active. I'm jealous. If you want it to happen, it will happen. Wyatt thanked him. Can I ask you something personal? Have you ever seen the ghost of one of your patients? One that you know didn't make it? John looked off in thought, as if the answer wasn't immediately available. You know I haven't. Most people don't even want to come to the hospital when they're alive. So where does this lady in red haunt? The 10th floor, I believe. Then that's where I'm headed, said John. He paused to kiss Constance on his way upstairs. Wyatt enjoyed the Greg more. As the ice melted, he scanned the crowd for Nina. The Father Daughter dance was a winsome jitterbug to Isn't She Lovely? Lillian and Paul had clearly practiced. They were chatting and laughing as their feet moved in sync. Greg and his mother joined them for God only knows. These were tricky songs to choose, Wyatt remembered from his own wedding. Often a single romantic lyric would nix an otherwise winner from the list. Greg's mom was little and she had a great face, crinkly with every line, expressing her joy. Her son could scoop her up and put her down if he wanted to. He could tuck her into bed like a daughter. Wyatt wanted to be the kind of son who took care of his parents. As an only child. He would have to be still when he was being honest with himself or with Nina. He admitted that he didn't want to. She felt the same way, and the plan was that they'd switch. Nina would take care of his parents when they got older, and he would take care of hers. The plan was a joke, but he hoped they did it anyway. Wyatt took another Lillian from a passing tray and sat down to enjoy it, watching the crowd go up by factors of two as dancers split and recruited new partners from the crowd. A woman near Wyatt sighed loudly through her nostrils. She'd angled her chair toward the dance floor and her foot was bobbing erratically, completely independent of the music's tempo. A caterer circled the table, bearing wine. He spoke up over the music to offer her Merlot from his left hand or Chardonnay from his right, to which she responded, please, please. Which it doesn't matter. She replied. I have Merlot or Chardonnay. It doesn't matter. Would you prefer red or white? It makes absolutely no difference to me. There are two options, he pleaded. At last she thrust her glass at him and said, here, red. I don't care. The band played on. Wyatt tactfully averted his eyes from the exchange. Merlot or chardonnay? Wyatt shifted his mouth as he considered. He liked red better, but he'd had white with his salmon, and his glass still had the dregs. He'd drunk Nina's greg and thought he'd get her some consolation wine. She'd been gone for some time now, a little turned on. He thought vaguely of being inside her, a desire that was only partly localized or even sexual at all. Since there was an opposite and equal urge to enclose her, he decided that what he was really in the mood for, though physically impossible in three dimensions, was occupying the exact same space as her, molecule for molecule. Red for me and white for the glass three seats down. And then pass it over here, please. He drank half of his own, then covered each glass with a cocktail napkin and went to find his wife. His chair tipped over when he stood. First stop was the men's room, where he relieved himself for what he knew to be the first of many times that night. He surveyed himself in the elaborately beveled mirror. He'd reached the age where people started to look not like older versions of themselves but rather like worse versions of themselves. He'd stayed vigilant. He'd developed a small belly when his metabolism first slowed down, but he'd been quick to reel it back in. He stuck his tongue out. It was blue, black from wine. He loosened his tie and popped his top button. He held the door open for a man who was entering the bathroom and saw that it was Austin, the other ex, Nina's sophomore boyfriend from ten plus years back. One by one, some passing comment had rendered each of Nina's exes irreparably three dimensional. In Austin's case, it was that he'd made Nina feel feminine, a remark that Wyatt wished he could unhear as soon as she said it. That Austin wasn't obviously hunky only made it worse, because that meant he possessed some other je ne sais quoi animal magnetism. Usually when Nina spoke favorably of a former flame, Wyatt listened for the implied request of him. But what could he do with that? He said hello and asked if Austin had seen Nina. Wyatt. Austin clasped Wyatt's hand. It was a good handshake. How many things like that added up to make someone feel feminine. I did, actually, out in the lobby. I think she was on her way back in to find you. I'd love to catch up with Nina while I'm in town. It's been a minute. Maybe the three of us could get coffee. That would be nice, wyatt said, and he really meant it. Back in the ballroom, Nina was nowhere in sight. Wyatt checked their table, finished his wine, and was considering making his way to the second floor balcony for an aerial view when a singer called, now we want everyone on the floor. The band looped the same few measures as he spoke. If you don't know the dance, that's just fine because we will tell you the moves. Another singer spoke over the ambling bass. If everybody fits on the dance floor, it means we've got too many wallflowers. I want spillover. I want to see people on the rug. There was a touch of elementary school teacher in her cadence, and the remaining holdouts filed obediently onto the floor and loosely arranged themselves into rows. Wyatt followed the bare feet of the teenage girl in front of him. After two quarter turn hops, he was in front, and presumably it was his feet that were watched. Now, the couple times he messed up, he made up for it by smiling and shrugging and doubling down on his own enjoyment. He glanced around for Nina. When the song ended, half the dancers returned to their seats in conversation. Not Wyatt, though. First, he liked dancing. He'd been at the center of the dance floor at his fraternity parties and at bars after college. Now people were getting married. He could get down once a month, twice during summer. Nina said he danced like Jerry Lewis, and when he asked if that was a compliment, she said, oh yeah. Second, Wyatt liked Greg and had a great rapport with Lillian. It was all good, but the other guests didn't necessarily know that, and he wouldn't pretend it hadn't crossed his mind that people might be glancing to see how he was doing. Third, Nina would appear and she'd either find him loitering around the table or having a great time on his own. Which kind of husband would anyone choose, given the choice in speculating whether he himself could hit the notes in More Than a Woman, a bright yawp escaped from Wyatt's throat. He made it his mission to dance with the very young and the very old. He rescued a sulking niece from her own tantrum during Build Me Up, Buttercup. He supported a matriarch through let's Stay Together. He instigated a conga line for Love Train and accepted no one's excuse for sitting it out. He was so happy. He was so happy. This was what he wanted his funeral to be like, a celebration. Who could he tell who put this thing together? How could he include instructions in his will for the party planner of this event without spooking her or him? Of course, men could be party planners, too, but probably her. He loved thoughts like that little, let's be honest, asides between him and himself. The man and the woman of the hour had just swirled into view. Greg and Lillian. Lillian and Greg. Wyatt made two finger guns, one for each. You're a dancing machine, said Lillian. Fire on the dance floor, said Greg. Hot. Literally and figuratively, my man. Maybe you should cool down a little. My brother will help you get some cold and best seat in the house, won't you, Stephen? Wyatt felt himself propelled into the best man's arms. The Great Chicago Fire on the dance floor. That's me. You're burning up, big guy, said Stephen. I am hot, wyatt admitted. You're the big guy. Look at that wingspan. You ball. I swam. They were at the bar now, where the bartender filled a plastic cup with soda water from a nozzle. I love fizzy water. It's like breathing and drinking at the same time, Wyatt told him, then decided it was time to escape from Stephen. The curtains behind the band had been opened during dinner, and he remembered being curious about the view. When Stephen turned away, Wyatt set a course for the south wall. He ducked and dodged and picked and rolled through chairs and tables and people, found a part in the gold drapery and insinuated himself into the folds. It was snowing outside. The street was a glassy obsidian. He rolled his forehead from side to side on the cool pain. The script on the awning across the street read the Grand Ballroom. If you're there, then where am I? He wondered, then remembered that he was at the Drake Hotel, looking over Walton street at the Knickerbocker from the world he'd left behind. Wyatt heard the long diphthong of an O buttressed by arpeggiated chords. He loved this song. He unwound himself from the drapery and made his way back to the room. I've hungered for your touch. A long lonely time, the singer crooned, fedora pulled low over his eyes. People were holding each other close and moving in their own personal circles. Some kissed. Wyatt was sure that the dancers would part and Nina would be there. He envisioned the two of them spotlit, approaching each other from opposite sides of the floor. He swayed Side to side, like they were already together. As the song ascended to the whole reason for the song, the part about needing love, a need so powerful that it required a new and higher octave. He was almost crying. Needing love was the purest feeling in the world. Everybody needed love. He was having a profound aesthetic experience and his knowledge of that did nothing to diminish it. The song ended and Ina hadn't appeared. Instead, there was Lillian. How are you feeling, Wyatt? The Good Time players transitioned into an up tempo song and the lights turned pink. Lillian, let's find the photographer and take a picture. You and me, the beneficiaries of the Greg Nina split. I don't know that we need to document exactly that. You're the best, Lillian. With a Without you, there's no me. That's very sweet. I mean it. I owe you so much for the right of first refusal thing. How that whole thing worked out. I lay my life at your feet. Oh, Wyatt, stand up. What are you talking about? The right of first refusal? I don't understand what you're saying. You know. You know when Nina called up Greg and said, greg, I'm at a point in my life when I'm ready to get married and I'm giving you the right of first refusal. Wyatt held his thumb and pinky between his ear and mouth as if holding an infant invisible receiver. Stop that for a moment. What? He got to his feet. Oh, you know. He thought about it and got back to her and said, no, thank you, not right now, because you two are dating and the next thing you know, she meets me and the rest is history. What? After you, but before me. So three years ago, he never told me about that. He never told you. In a way, you're the hero. He added the last part because Lillian looked perturbed. It was a happy sequence of events and he worried that he'd mistold the story heroin if it had been the other way around. And Greg had right of first refusal. Nina, when we just started dating, I don't know what would have happened. You guys were rock solid from the beginning. This is what I'm getting at. You're a special lady is what the story means. Your love story made my love story possible is the point. Lillian shook her head for so long that Wyatt almost giggled. Lies of omission are that man's specialty. Then she nodded for just as long and said, but you're right. It doesn't matter. It really doesn't matter. It's not a big deal. It's not a big deal. Exactly. Excuse me, said Lillian. You're excused, said Wyatt gamely, and they parted. Where was Nina? At least three songs had just played that they always made it a point to dance to September, shout parts one and two, and he couldn't remember the third. Now the music stopped and Greg and Lillian were cutting the cake while everybody, including Wyatt, cheered. Now Wyatt was back on the case. She was out to the lobby, but that was a while ago. This was fun, like he was on a quest. Wyatt saw a friend of Greg's that Nina had briefly dated pre Greg, holding one of Nina's green strappy shoes and speaking with the receptionist. So she's close. I'm seeing if they have something for this, said Chase, showing him where the heel had detached from the sole. You're the guy to fix it. The guy. Wyatt turned to include the receptionist in the conversation. This guy knows all about glue. But where is the woman that belongs to that shoe that rhymed? She went that way maybe 15 minutes ago. Glue shoe. Thanks for the clue. Are you all right, Wyatt? Toodaloo. He turned down the hallway. Like anyone, he often considered the ways his life could have gone differently. Sometimes he imagined what it would have been like if he and Nina had met earlier, what it would have been like to know her in college or high school or even childhood. What if it had been her at all those points instead of Emily or Sasha or Hannah or nobody. Rarely did he think about what it would have been like to have not met Nina at all. They'd been seated together on an airplane. It would have been easy. Vertigo spun up from his stomach. It was like he was looking at the bridge that connected his life before they met with his life after they met, and seeing for the first time how narrow it was and how steep the drop was below, he almost fell over in real life. But he steadied himself by remembering that they did meet and by pressing his hand to the wall. There she was at last, outside the glass door of the business center. Taking care of business? He asked, approaching. He could see now that she was crying, but it didn't matter because they shared everything, and soon she would share his happiness. She had a million ex boyfriends, but only one husband, and that husband was him. Wyatt. Wyatt the dancing machine. Wyatt the knocked down tree. He tried to restrain his expression into one of concern, but a smile spread heedlessly across his face. He waved at her and she kept crying. It was simple. He loved her more, and the realization thrilled him. Nina loved Wyatt more than she'd ever loved anyone, and yet still, he loved her more because he was good at love. He was expansive. He could fit the entire Drake Hotel into his capacity for love. He could take in the whole city of Chicago, large and looming like the Stay Puft marshmallow man of love. He vomited benevolently onto the floor. The lemon buttercream and the raspberry jam, barely digested, were still sweet. Wyatt, you missed the cake. I haven't seen you in. He scrutinized the hands on his watch. It was either 11:30 or 12:30 hours. She drew her ring fingers along the bottoms of her eyes, more or less smearing her mascara back into place. She'd been crying daily for months. In the mornings, in the evenings, after sex, on the phone from the bathroom at work. Wyatt had almost forgotten. It was unusual hours. She took his wrist to confirm, not hours. I'm sorry, though. Something about the music made me flip out. I kept starting to come back in and then I'd hear it and flip out again. We should do something about this, she said of the pale fragrant patch on the carpet. Tomato, tomahto. What's up? It's not even worth talking about. I vomited. Now I want you to vomit. He reached for her face but undershot and swept the air. I don't know. I just feel so lost lately. And then tonight especially. He knew about the lately, so he asked about the especially. Are you sad about Greg? It feels like that a little. But I know that's not really it. I feel like a drag, she said. You're not a drag. I experience myself drag. I just feel so bad lately. It's something different every day. Wyatt nodded. He knew this. Tonight I'm jealous. Not jealous of Lillian being with Greg, more jealous of Lillian being Lillian. And I wouldn't compare myself to her except for Greg. So I get angry at him and myself and even you. But tomorrow it will be something else. Do you love me even when I'm like this? This. Her red cheeks and nose greened, her hazel eyes, mucus in various states of evaporation, rested on her upper lip. Of course. Would you love me even if I were always like this? He knew this wasn't the first time she'd asked someone this question. It wasn't even the first time she'd asked him. He knew she'd had periods like this during every one of her relationships, and he could see each boyfriend saying yes one after the other, just as he was doing now. She brushed something off her dress. He blinked, and at the end of that blink it was morning and he was in bed. Nina was still wearing mascara, and a small slash of black marked her pillow. Nina spoke first. If I have a hangover, you must be dying. But he felt fine, which meant he was probably still a little drunk and consequences were still to come. He rolled toward his night table to check his phone. At the first bit of pressure, sparklers of pain burst all down his right side. Why do I hurt? He asked. You ate it hard when we walked out to the car. What else did I miss? I had an existential freakout and you said we should have a baby. Like that would solve it. And I got mad at you for being sexist. You threw up a few times. You also apparently told Lillian about that time I tried to get back together with Greg. He just texted me. Oh Jesus. Wyatt rubbed his his eyes. I remember that one. Mostly totally inappropriate, but I did think she already knew. That's Greg for you. They gazed at the light from their phones until Wyatt spoke. Can I ask you something? What's up? He was embarrassed to look at her. If it had been the other way around, if Greg had come to you when we first got together and said, leave him for me, would you have done it? You asked me that last night. What did you say? Among other things, I said I would only answer that question once. He looked at her. She was pleased with herself. Please, Nina, I can't remember. You've got to drink less of these things, Wyatt. You don't want to end up like your grand granddaddy. The hangover was settling between his eyebrows like snow. Jealousy, too. He found himself growing petty, earthbound. He wanted equality. He wanted to go back to the night before, when it didn't matter. I think you would have done it at the very beginning. And that's okay. My revised question is, after what point would you have definitely said no? She shrugged as though mystified. After that Yellowstone trip, we were probably in the clear. Anytime before that. Like that June. We had a great June. He watched for any reaction, but Nina's poker face was airtight. Nina, Nina, Nina, Nina, Nina, Nina, Nina, Nina. That's not going to work. She went to the bathroom and called to Wyatt over the sound of the faucet. I look like I escaped from a mental institution. Please tell me I'm pretty. You're pretty. He loved her more. She needed him more. Was that then equality? He held the means of production, so to speak. Or was it the other way around? Was he the labor? It had been 13 years since sociology. The toilet flushed. You look unsettled. You look like you need coffee, she said from the doorway. She was pretty and water coming right up. But first I'm going to belly flop on you. And she did. Naked and graceless and warm.

Meg Wolitzer (57:00)

That was the happiest day of your life. A story by Katherine Dam, performed by Santino Fontana Fontana really paints the picture, doesn't he? He really helps us feel Wyatt's slow spiral into drunkenness and the questions that haunt him as sobriety kicks in. Ah, weddings. Occasions at which people think about their lives in a celebratory light from a kind of distance. A great time for words of wisdom. While Dam's story does not contain chestnuts like Never go to bed angry. You can almost feel them parenthetically, or want to shout them out yourself as the young couples struggle through their crises. Now, maybe our tales gave you a hint about when and where to offer. Or carefully refrain from offering your best advice. Maybe you picked up some advice from the stories yourself. I know I did my lessons. Don't date a Gary, don't listen to Terry's, and never go all in on the Gregs. Meg I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our mix engineer for this episode was Jennifer Nolsen. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Deardorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony.