If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now

by Claire LaZebnik

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

From the well-loved author of Knitting Under the Influence and The Smart One and the Pretty One comes a new novel about a young single mother trying to move out of her family's shadow. Rickie left home a long time ago-so how is it that at the age of twenty-five, she's living with her parents again, and sleeping in the bedroom of her childhood home? At least one thing has changed since high school: She now has a very sweet but frequently challenging son named Noah, who attends the same tony private LA school she herself attended. Rickie fit in fine when she was a student, but now her age and tattoos make her stand out from all the blond Stepford moms, who are desperate to know why someone so young-and so unmarried-has a kid in first grade. Already on the defensive, Rickie goes into full mother-tigress mode when her small and unathletic son tells her that the gym teacher is out to get him. She storms the principal's office, only to discover that Andrew Fulton, the coach, is no dumb jock. As her friendship with Andrew develops, Rickie finds herself questioning her assumptions-about motherhood, being a grown-up, and falling in love.

Release date: September 27, 2010

Publisher: 5 Spot

Print pages: 341

Sample

“Winning… moments of real depth combine with witty dialogue as LaZebnik deftly spins each turn convincingly to avoid easy
answers.”—


Publishers Weekly

“This sparkling novel about two sisters is both witty and stylish. You won’t be able to resist LaZebnik’s charming take on
modern relationships. Read it!”


—Holly Peterson, New York Times bestselling author of The Manny

“A funny and endearing novel that truly captures the devotion and rivalry between sisters… whether they relate to the smart
one or the pretty one (or both), readers will find this book irresistible.”—


Booklist

“Another alluring tale of two seemingly different sisters… Recommended for fans of intelligent chick lit.”—

Library Journal

“A deliciously intimate portrait of sisters.”

—W. Bruce Cameron, author of 8 Simple Rules for Marrying My Daughter

“A fun novel… perfect for reading on a beach.”

—WomansDay.com

“Claire LaZebnik explores the sister bond with warmth, wit, and honesty. I loved this novel.”

—Jill Smolinski, author of The Next Thing on My List

“Sisters everywhere will recognize themselves in The Smart One and the Pretty One. Claire LaZebnik has written a touching take on love, longing, and the ties that bind.”


—Heather and Rose MacDowell, authors of Turning Tables

“Claire LaZebnik has written a wonderfully smart and funny novel about the complexity of love and friendship between sisters.
Filled with real warmth and astute observations, it made me wish I had a sister of my own. You’ll enjoy every heartfelt page.”


—Leslie Schnur, author of Late Night Talking and The Dog Walker

“At turns hilarious, at times heartbreaking, and so, so honest about life, love, and friendship. I loved it.”

—Melissa Senate

“Charming… smart, engaging characters, each of whom is complicated and real enough to be worth an entire book on her own.”

—Chicago Sun-Times

“LaZebnik juggles periods of personal crisis while maintaining her characters’ complex individuality. Social knitters, especially,
will relate to the bond that strengthens over the click-clack of the girls’ needles.”


—Publishers Weekly

“[A] funny and heart-tugging story about three twenty-something Los Angeles women who drink, cry, and, of course, knit together
whenever they can.”


—Arizona Republic

“The characters and problems here are more realistically portrayed than in many chick-lit books, which makes this a nice combination
of humor and heartache. Recommended.”


—Library Journal

“Fantastic… has great, believable, and well-written characters that bring the story to life. This is a story that no one will
want to miss!”


—TCM Reviews

“A hilarious tale, sometimes sweet and touching and sometimes out-loud laughable. But mainly it is honest and hits home about
life, love, and dating.”


—BookLoons.com

“Knitting Under the Influence is about three young women living in L.A. who meet every week to knit, share secrets, and exchange insights about the challenges
of their lives. It’s ultimately about how friendship helps us forge a sensible path through our frazzled lives.”


—Palisadian-Post (CA)


The heat wave that had tortured us for most of September finally broke and Tuesday morning was cool and overcast, so I volunteered
to take Eleanor Roosevelt around the block. My mother thanked me a little too enthusiastically, effectively conveying the
message that her expectations of me were so low that she was bowled over by a simple offer to walk the dog.


I was trying to get Eleanor Roosevelt’s leash on, dodging her happy dancing legs and scolding her to hold still, when my cell
phone rang. I dropped the leash so I could get the phone out of my jeans pocket. Eleanor Roosevelt stopped wiggling and looked
at me, confused. This wasn’t how the game went.


“Hey, Rickie,” said a male voice on the other end.

I breathed in sharply. “Ryan?”

“Yeah.”

I gave a delighted bounce and Eleanor Roosevelt jumped and barked with sympathetic excitement. “Are you back in town?”

“Yep. Just got back a couple of days ago.”

“It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Same here. Sorry I didn’t keep up with your e-mails the last month or so.”

“No worries,” I said. “Have you seen Gabriel yet?”

“Last night. We talked for a long time. I still can’t believe it—I leave home for six months, and they decide to get divorced?
What’s up with that?”


“It’s a mess.”

“Want to come over and discuss it with me?”

Just nine words, but they were enough to make every inch of me tighten with desire. I kept my voice casual, though. “Right
now?”


“I’m not doing anything. You?”

“Nah, not really.” I glanced down at the dog and whispered, “Sorry, girl.” Into the phone I added, “Half an hour good?”

“Perfect. See you.”

I gently nudged Eleanor Roosevelt away from my leg and hung the leash back up on its nail in the coat closet. The dog whined
and followed me as I headed toward the kitchen, where my mother was working on her laptop.


“I thought you were taking her on a walk,” she said, looking up.

“I just got a call. I’m going to meet a friend for lunch.”

“Can’t you walk the dog first?”

“I said I’d be right over.”

“You’re breaking her heart.”

I looked back at the yellow Lab. She ducked her head down but kept her eyes pinned on my face hopefully. “She’s just a dog,”
I said, even though I felt bad about disappointing her. “She’ll be fine.”


“Just run her around the block—”

“I don’t have time. I promise I’ll walk her later.”

My mother rose from the table, heaving a dramatic sigh. “Come on,” she said to Eleanor Roosevelt, who immediately raised her
head, her eyes gleaming with sudden joy. “I’ll take you.” Eleanor Roosevelt gave a leap of pure happiness and trotted ahead of Mom out of the kitchen, toward her leash and the walk she loved so much.


I went the other way, toward the garage, and got in my car. I drove past them on the street. Eleanor Roosevelt was hauling
my mother along, practically pulling her arm out of its socket in her delight at being out and about.


I didn’t slow down and Mom didn’t wave.

Ryan worked on movie shoots as a production assistant. He was always traveling to different countries. Sometimes I’d be at
a movie and see his name in the credits, and I’d feel a funny burst of pride even though he hadn’t told me anything about
it and his name was always buried way at the end.


We met when his brother, Gabriel, and my half sister, Melanie, first got engaged. I was sixteen, moody and insecure and far
more excited about being Mel’s maid of honor than I would ever admit to anyone. Ryan was five years older, just finishing
up college, and, as Gabriel’s brother and best man, my official partner in all ceremonies and table seatings. He was tall,
cute, mildly roguish, and so far out of my league that I immediately developed a major crush on him and proceeded to spend
way too much time trying to figure out what relation Mel and Gabriel’s children would be to ours when Ryan and I got married
in turn.


Ryan winked at me and squeezed my arm when we walked back down the aisle together after the ceremony. Feeling grown-up in
my strapless silver bridesmaid dress, I thought that meant he was finally seeing me as a woman, until I took a sip of champagne
in front of him a little while later and he said, “Don’t be in such a rush to grow up. Being a kid is more fun.” I thought
he was just being patronizing, but over time I came to realize he meant it—the guy was in no rush to become an adult. Me, I was in too much of a rush, although how much too much only became evident about three years later.


Anyway, when Ryan left his seat at our table to flirt with Melanie’s former college roommate who was twenty-four and gorgeous—or
at least so blond and tall that she passed for gorgeous—I surrendered the fantasy that I could ever be anything other than
Mel’s little sister to him.


Our paths continued to cross through subsequent years of family holidays and celebrations, but Ryan was never more than civil
and distantly friendly until a couple of Thanksgivings ago at our house, when my mom seated us together and something just
clicked. The timing was finally right, I guess. He was a footloose twenty-eight-year-old and I was a twenty-three-year-old
with responsibilities. Made us almost the same age.


We talked to each other the entire evening, mostly about our families. We both knew what it was like to be the younger and
less successful sibling—maybe that was what bonded us, made us similarly sarcastic, similarly vulnerable, similarly determined
not to let anyone see through the sarcasm to that vulnerability.


Ryan was actually better-looking than Gabriel. His features were smaller and more even and he was a lot thinner, but he lacked
Gabriel’s charm and exuberance. Gabriel was a chubby teddy bear of a guy whose overgrown beard and mustache made him look
like he’d taken refuge in a cave for a number of years, but wherever he went he took up a lot of space in a good way. He made every room feel a little warmer and homier and more welcoming because he was in it, whereas Ryan hovered around
the edges wherever he was, always an observer, always a visitor, never at home. It was no surprise he took jobs that let him
travel all over the world: he liked being rootless and independent.


We surreptitiously exchanged phone numbers that Thanksgiving night. A few days later he called me, and we met at a restaurant
for dinner and ended up back at his place. From then on, whenever he was in town, he got in touch with me.


Neither of us told our families. They might have thought it was meaningful when it wasn’t.

I would be the first to admit that I hadn’t ever completely gotten over my crush on Ryan, but the more I got to know him,
the more I realized he wasn’t a guy you could pin a lot of hopes on. The second you tried to grab on to him in any way, he
turned slippery and slid right through your fingers. The reason he liked me was because I was smart enough to leave him alone
most of the time.


It was harder than it looked.

He greeted me now at the front door of his small apartment building, in answer to my intercom call. “The lock’s broken,” he
explained as he gave me a brusque kiss on the cheek. “I can’t buzz people in anymore. Have to come down.”


“Can’t you get them to fix it?”

He shrugged. “I’m only in town until the next job. Someone who lives here all the time can deal with it. Come on.”

He led me upstairs and I studied him from the back. He looked good: a little thinner than the last time I’d seen him, and
his wavy light brown hair hadn’t been cut for a while, but both things suited him. The guy could still pass for a college
student even though he was over thirty.


The last time we’d gone out for drinks together, we had both been carded.

We entered his apartment. It looked exactly the same as it had six months ago, when I’d last been there: an IKEA sofa, a couple
of framed generic prints on the wall, a large-screen HD TV. Not much else. “So you already have another job lined up?” I asked, turning toward him as he closed the door behind us.


Ryan nodded. “Yep. With Jonathan Bluestein.” I must have looked pretty blank, because he added, “He directed that movie I
worked on a few years ago, Coach Class. I’m not sure you ever saw it.” He didn’t bother to wait for my response. “Anyway, I leave for Turkey sometime early or mid-December
for a three-month shoot.”


“Really? Turkey? Wow.” I tried not to sound disappointed. I thought he’d be in town longer than that. “You’ll miss Christmas.”

“Yeah and it’s so meaningful to me,” he said. “What with my not being religious or having kids. I care as much about missing
Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.” There was a slight, possibly awkward pause. “Take off your shoes, stay awhile,” he said then
with a sly grin. “You want something to drink?”


“It’s not even noon yet.”

“I’m still on European time.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not. I’ll have a glass of water, though.” I followed him into the kitchen, where he opened the fridge, which
was empty except for a bottle of wine, a few take-out packets of soy sauce and hot mustard, and a six-pack of Evian water.
“Do you ever eat at home?” I asked as he handed me one of the waters.


“Never.”

We went back into the other room and sat next to each other on the sofa, a little stiff and awkward the way we always were
when we hadn’t seen each other for a while, and he told me about the shoot he’d just been on, which had taken him first to
Paris and then to London.


“You’re so freakin’ lucky,” I said. “I want your life.”

“You can’t have it. I still use it.” He flicked at my hair. “What’s going on with this? I remember when you first did this green stripe thing, but now it’s looking kind of faded and
putrid. And then there’s some red dye over on this side—”


I moved my head away from his touch irritably. “I don’t know. I’m just growing it out, I guess.”

“Then dye it all back to normal,” he said. “It just looks like a mess. And then there’s the piercings and the tattoos…”

I self-consciously reached up and touched the ring in my eyebrow and the stud in my nose.

He shook his head. “Honestly, Rickie, when are you going to clean yourself up? Let yourself look like a pretty girl for once?”

I crossed my arms. “So you’re saying I’m not pretty?”


“You’re pretty,” he said and, leaning forward, carefully uncrossed my arms like he was peeling a banana.

That was enough of a cue for me: I fell back against the sofa cushions, eagerly pulling him down on top of me. This is what
I had come to see him for, after all.


I was twenty-five years old and rarely had the opportunity to have sex. Lust ruled my body. I couldn’t even look at a men’s
jeans ad without getting aroused. So, once the dam had burst, I started grabbing at Ryan like some kind of crazed thing, eagerly sliding my hands over his chest and then tearing off my own shirt to offer up my small breasts to his touch.


Everything he did felt so good I could have screamed—my whole body, all of my skin, every inch of me responded to the slightest
touch from his fingers. When we finally moved to his bed, both of us stripping off our jeans a little frantically before climbing
up, I pushed him down and straddled him and he laughed and let me do whatever I wanted until he was breathing pretty hard
and then he rolled me over onto my back and took charge.


I wondered at some point whether I was the last woman he’d slept with or if there had been another—or others—since then, some Parisian girl, or maybe a British one. I told myself
it didn’t matter. But I couldn’t put the question completely out of my mind.


Afterwards, we lay side by side, catching our breath.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” I said eventually.

“Never,” Ryan said. “We have to never stop meeting like this. Promise me that when you’re married and all settled down with
like ten or twelve kids, you’ll still meet me like this.”


“You don’t think my husband will object?”

“Nah. He’ll be grateful. How could one man ever keep up with you, Rickie?”

“I’m really not such a major nympho,” I said. “I only seem like one because I get it so seldom. I mean, this is it for me
until you come back to town again.”


“I’m here for a little while this time. There’ll be time for more.”

“Good.” I curled up against him so I could nuzzle at his neck.

“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” Ryan asked, pushing me away so he could look at my face. “Every time I come back to town,
I think, ‘This time Rickie will be with someone.’ ”


“Are you relieved or disappointed when I’m not?”

“Do you really have to ask?” He pushed my overgrown hair back over my shoulder and studied the effect. “From a purely selfish
standpoint, I’m thrilled you’re available. But as your sort-of-not-really older brother, I worry about you.”


“Don’t. I’m fine. And please don’t refer to yourself as my brother when we’re still in bed together.”

“You should be doing more with your life,” he said. “That’s how you meet people. When are you going to go back to school?”

“I take classes online.” Only one easy course at a time, but I always kept myself enrolled so I could tell people I was working
on getting my bachelor’s degree. Otherwise, they acted all judgmental—like Ryan was right now.


Unfortunately, he had heard that line too many times. “Oh, please. That doesn’t get you out and meeting people. If you’re
not going to get serious about your education, then you should get a job. How long are you going to keep mooching off your
parents, anyway?”


“I don’t know,” I said. “How long are you going to keep living like a college student and running away to other countries
to avoid making any long-term decisions about your life?”


“Ten more years,” he said calmly. “At least.”

“You’ll be over forty by then.”

“So? And you still haven’t answered my question. Do you think about the future at all, Rickie?”

I rolled onto my back and glared at the ceiling. “Leave me alone, will you?”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“Don’t need help,” I said. “Sex. I need sex.” I sat up and made a grab for him. He caught my hand in his.

“Give me a few more minutes,” he said. “I’m not as young as I used to be. Let me recharge.”

“Now that’s romantic,” I said and sat back against the headboard with a pout.

“So how’s Melanie doing?” he asked, playing with my hand a little. “She okay?”

“Not really. I could kill your brother.”

He dropped my hand. “It’s hardly all his fault.”

“He cheated on her,” I said. “With that stupid actress. How is that not all his fault?”

“She didn’t have to throw him out so quickly. She could have given him another chance. People sometimes do things that they regret. They don’t deserve to have their lives ruined
because of one bad moment.”


I pulled the blanket up over my body and pinned it across my chest with my arms. “You probably don’t know this because you’ve
been away and Gabriel’s not going to rush to tell you, but he’s been going around publicly with that woman and totally throwing
it in poor Mel’s face that he’s in love with someone younger and prettier. He doesn’t give a shit about saving the marriage.”


“You’re wrong,” Ryan said. “Melanie broke his heart when she threw him out.”

“He cheated on her.”


“She could have forgiven him.”

“Some things are unforgivable.”

“Nothing’s unforgivable.”

I scowled. “That’s what cheaters always say.”

“I’ve never cheated on anyone in my life.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t cheat when you don’t commit.”

He gave an indifferent shrug. “Maybe. But my point still stands: your sister could have saved the marriage if she’d wanted
to.”


“God, I hate men!” I slid out of the bed and reached down for my underpants, which were still caught in my jeans. “You can
behave like total assholes and then find a way to pin the blame on everyone but you.”


“You’re not listening to me,” Ryan said. “And why are you getting dressed already?”

I turned to him, wearing only my underwear. “Because Melanie is the only truly decent person I know, and your brother screwed
her over and broke her heart and you’re defending him.”


He put his hands up. “I’m sorry. Look, I don’t want to fight with you, Rickie.”


“I know,” I said dully. “You want to have sex with me.”

“Right. Is that so bad?”

I considered for a moment and then I sighed. “Nah. That’s why I’m here.” I crawled back into the bed next to him. “But let’s
not talk about them anymore, okay? We’re not going to agree on this one and it makes me too angry.”


“Yeah, okay,” he said. He held out his arms and I moved into them and against his chest. He gently rubbed my arm and my shoulder,
and then his hand slid down to cover my left breast. He cupped it in his hand while his thumb lightly played with the nipple
until I made a little involuntary noise of pleasure. “There,” he said. “Now are we back in sync?”


“Depends,” I said. “Are you recharged?”

“Getting there,” he said with a grin. “Definitely getting there.”

“I’m hungry,” Ryan said a little while later. “You want to grab something?”

I sat up and looked at my watch, which was the only thing I was wearing at that particular moment. It was a good one, too,
a vintage Hamilton that my parents had given me for my twenty-fifth birthday. I had taken it as my mother’s not-so-subtle
way of suggesting I keep to a schedule. “I should get going.”


“What time is it?” he asked with a yawn. “I’m still so jet-lagged I never know whether it’s morning or night.”

“It’s past two-thirty. I have to pick Noah up from school at three.”

Ryan propped a pillow under his head. “How is the little guy doing, anyway?” he said in the affable but remote tone he always
used when the subject of Noah came up.


I leaned over the side of the bed to snatch up my clothes. “He’s fine.”


That satisfied him: it wasn’t like he really cared. “Great. Hey, there’s this new place about three blocks away I want to
try. I think it’s Lebanese. Something Middle Eastern, anyway. You sure you don’t have time to just run over for a few minutes?”


“I’m worried about traffic.”

“What would happen if you were a couple of minutes late? I mean, they don’t throw him out on the street, right?”

I shook my head. “He freaks if I’m late.”

“Too bad. I really wanted to try this place with you.”

I didn’t say anything, but I was bummed too. It would have been nice to have lazily gotten dressed and wandered out to that
restaurant and eaten there; we probably would have had the place to ourselves at this time of day. Instead I’d be fighting
traffic all the way back to the Westside just to sit in car pool for half an hour with my little car heating up in the sun
and people cutting me off with their enormous SUVs and Noah complaining as soon as he got in the car about something his teacher
or one of the other kids had said to him that had hurt his feelings and ruined his day, his week, his month, his year…


“Maybe we can have dinner one night next week,” Ryan said.

“I’ll have to check with my parents.” I made a face. “And beg them to babysit. You know how I love to owe them favors.”

He yawned again. “No wonder you don’t get out much.”

“Yeah.” I got off the bed and pulled on my pants. “Having a kid at nineteen really screws up your dating life,” I said, trying
to sound lighthearted about it.


“Well,” he said, closing his eyes sleepily, “you’ll always have me.”

On my way back down the stairs, I fished my cell phone out of my purse and saw, with a sick feeling of guilt, that I had missed
a couple of calls from Noah’s school. This couldn’t be good. I called back and was immediately forwarded to the nurse, who
informed me that I should come as soon as possible because Noah wasn’t feeling well. “Don’t worry, Mom,” she said in a carefully
cheerful voice that meant he was in the room with her. “He’s fine.” I resisted a familiar urge to point out I wasn’t her mom
and told her I’d be there as soon as I could.


The drive across town felt endless. Traffic was bad, and even when it cleared up for a few blocks, I’d get stuck behind someone
slow.


Car pool had already begun by the time I got to school. I parked out on the street and raced inside, taking the stairs three
at a time as I headed up to the administrative offices on the top floor, where the nurse’s office was. Noah was sitting on
the edge of her sofa, his shoulders hunched forward and his arms folded tight across his stomach like he had to protect it
from an incoming fist.


“Mom!” he said, raising his head as I ran over to him. “Where were you? We were calling and calling.” His face was pale and
he had dark circles under his eyes.


“You okay?” I asked. He shook his head. I knelt down on the floor next to him, holding my arms out, and he collapsed against
my shoulder. “What happened?”


“Caleb gave me a brownie,” he said into my neck.

“And you ate it?”

“He said it was gluten free.”

“Noah—”


“Really, Mom!” He sat up and looked at me with big, earnest eyes. “He asked me if I wanted a brownie and I said I’m not allowed
to eat it unless it’s gluten free and he said it was and that his mom got it specially for me. So I ate it and then my stomach
hurt and then I threw up and he started laughing and so did the other boys. They high-fived him.”


I looked over at the nurse, who was sitting in her desk chair watching us. “Did he tell you this?”

She nodded and smiled complacently. “I reminded him that he should only eat the food you pack him.”

“He’s six,” I said. “He believed Caleb.”


“He’ll be all right,” she said calmly. “He already looks a lot better.”

“Why did it take you so long?” Noah said to me. “I’ve been here forever.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear my phone.”

“You never hear your phone!” He burst into tears. For some reason, eating gluten not only made him sick to his stomach, it also made
him emotionally fragile. I hugged him, not bothering to argue the point, just wishing he didn’t have to deal with this thing.


It hadn’t occurred to me for the first few years of Noah’s life that there was something weird about how small he was until
Melanie gently pointed out that he was still wearing size two clothing at the age of four and said that maybe I should make
sure he was okay. I checked with the pediatrician and, long (miserable, painful, boring) story short, a few months later Noah
was diagnosed with celiac disease. The GI doctor said that he’d make up all the height he’d lost so long as we kept him on
a strict gluten-free diet, but here we were, two years later, and he was still really small for his age. It was possible I wasn’t careful enough about his diet. Or that he was simply doomed by his genes to be a ninety-nine-pound weakling.


I mean, by the genes he got from me, since I was a shrimp. But his dad was pretty tall. We used to joke about how his too-tall genes and my too-short genes would
cancel each other out and our children would be normal.


“Normal” was the last thing anyone would call Noah.

The worst of it was that because Noah went to this exclusive private school that my parents insisted on (and paid for)—and,. . .