This Is Where I Leave You

other.”
    “You’re so full of shit.”
    “Afraid not.”
    So she got off the bike and showed me her custom sneaker. “You see how this sole is almost an inch thicker than the other?”
    “Damn. I’m an asshole.”
    “It’s okay. You didn’t mean it.”
    “I’m Judd, by the way. Judd Foxman.”
    “I’m Jen.”
    “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll call you Bike Girl for a little while longer.”
    “Why would you do that?”
    “I’m only going to call you Jen after I’ve kissed you.”
    She seemed accustomed to such bold repartee. “But what if you never do?”
    “Then it won’t matter anyway.”
    “You’re ruling out the possibility of friendship.”
    “I’m guessing a girl like you has enough friends.”
    “And what kind of girl is that, exactly?”
    “An ironic cycler.”
    That laugh again, from out of nowhere, like it had been percolating inside her waiting to be released. In the sixty seconds she’d known me, I’d already made her laugh twice, and I’d read enough Playboy by then to know that beautiful women want a man who can make them laugh. Of course, what they really meant was a man who could make them laugh after he’d delivered multiple orgasms on his private jet with his trusty nine-inch cock, but I was on a roll, and hope tentatively unfurled its wings in my chest, preparing to take flight. 54I knew that she was much too pretty and well-adjusted for me. Over the last few years, I had carved out a niche for myself on campus among the screwed-up girls with dark lipstick and too many earrings, who worked through their mixed bag of childhood traumas by drinking excessively and having sex with unthreatening Jewish guys with ridiculous hair. This had actually happened exactly twice in as many years, but since it was all the action I’d seen, I liked to think of it as a niche. And I was not at all Jen’s type, but her type, genetically gifted man-boys with expensive sports cars, hairless Abercrombie bodies, and entitlement issues, hadn’t really been working for her as of late. Her last boyfriend, Everett - that was really his name, and he looked exactly how you’re picturing him, only not as tall - had actually told her that her poor posture made her look unimpressive. This from a boy, she later railed to me, with a concave chest and a pencil-thin dick. The one before that, David, had returned from winter break to tell her he had gotten engaged and was getting married that spring. Jen was in turmoil; she was grappling with self-esteem issues and a failed attempt at anorexia. I was in the right place at the right time, and the gods were finally ready to cut me some slack.
    But I didn’t know any of that yet. All I knew was that a conversation that should have ended already seemed to have taken on a life of its own, and a girl who, according to the laws of the universe, shouldn’t have given me a second glance was now leaning forward, her smiling mouth aimed unmistakably at mine. It was a quick, soft peck, but I felt the give in her lips, a hint of plush softness just beneath the surface, and I was in love. Seriously. Just like that.
    “Poor impulse control,” she said, proud of her daring.
    “Jen.” I exhaled slowly, running my tongue along the inside of my lips, savoring the waxy residue of her lip gloss.
    “Judd.”
    “I think I’m going to call you Bike Girl until we have sex.”
    She laughed again, and that was three, for those keeping score at home, and I didn’t stand a chance. Later on, Jen would swear that was the moment she knew she was going to marry me. That’s the problem with college kids. I blame Hollywood for skewing their perspective. Life is just a big romantic comedy to them, and if you meet cute, happily-ever-after is a foregone conclusion. So there we were, the pretty blond girl milking her very slight congenital limp in order to seem damaged and more interesting, and the nervous boy with the ridiculous hair trying so hard to be clever, the two of us hypnotized by the syncopated rhythms of our furiously beating hearts and throbbing loins. That stupid, desperate, horny kid I was, standing obliviously on the fault line of his embryonic love, when really, what he should have been doing was running for his life.

Chapter 7
    3:43 p.m.
    Boner comes by with three volunteers from the Hebrew Burial Society to deliver the mourning supplies. They rearrange furniture and set things up with a hushed military precision, after which Boner gathers the