Too Good to Be True by Kristan Higgins

to purge. Yes. One had to ask oneself when vintage became simply old. I grabbed a trash bag and started yanking. Goodbye to the sweaters with the holes in the armpits, the chiffon skirt with the burn in the back, the jeans that fit in 2002. Angus gnawed companionably on an old vinyl boot (what was I thinking?), and I let him have it.
    Last week, I saw a show on this woman who was born without legs. She was a mechanic…actually, not having legs made her job easier, she said, because she could just slide under cars on the little skateboard thing she used to get around. She’d been married once, but was now dating two other guys, just enjoying herself for the time being. Her ex-husband was interviewed next, a good-looking guy, two legs, the whole nine yards. “I’d do anything to get her back, but I’m just not enough for her,” he said mournfully. “I hope she finds what she’s looking for.”
    I found myself getting a little…well, not jealous, exactly, but it did seem this woman had an unfair advantage in the dating world. Everyone would look at her and say, Wow, what a plucky spirit. Isn’t she great! What about me? What about the two-legged among us, huh? How were we supposed to compete with that?
    “Okay, Grace,” I told myself aloud, “we’re crossing the line. Let’s find you a boyfriend and be done with it, shall we? Angus, move it, sweetie. Mommy has to go up to the attic with this crap, or you’ll chew through it in a heartbeat, won’t you? Because you’re a very naughty boy, aren’t you? Don’t deny it. That’s my toothbrush you have in your mouth. I am not blind, young man.”
    I dragged the trash bag full of stuff down the hall to the attic stairs. Drat. The light was out, and I didn’t feel like tromping downstairs to get another. Well, I was only stashing the stuff till I could make a trip to the dump.
    Up the narrow flight of stairs I went, the close, sharp smell of cedar tickling my nose. Like many Victorian homes, mine had a full-size attic, ten-foot ceilings and windows all around. Someday, I imagined, I’d put up some insulation and drywall and make this a playroom for my lovely children. I’d have a bookshelf that ran all the way around the room. An art area near the front window where the sun streamed in. A train table over there, a dress-up corner here. But for now, it held just some old pieces of furniture, a couple of boxes of Christmas ornaments and my Civil War uniforms and guns. Oh, and my wedding dress.
    What does one do with a never-been-worn, tailored-just-for-you wedding dress? I couldn’t just throw it out, could I? It had cost quite a bit. Granted, if I did find some flesh-and-blood version of Wyatt Dunn, maybe I’d get married, but would I want to use the dress I bought for Andrew? No, of course not. Yet there it still sat in its vacuum-packed bag, out of the sun so it wouldn’t fade. I wondered if it still fit. I’d packed on a few pounds since The Dumping. Hmm. Maybe I should try it on.
    Great. I was becoming Miss Havisham. Next I’d be eating rotten food and setting the clocks to twenty till nine.
    Something gnawed my ankle bone. Angus. I didn’t hear him come up the stairs. “Hi, little guy,” I said, gathering him up and removing a sesame noodle from his little head. Apparently, he’d gotten into the Chinese food. He whined affectionately and wagged. “What’s that? You love my hair? Oh, thank you, Angus McFangus. Excuse me? It’s Ben & Jerry’s time? Why, you little genius! You’re absolutely right. What do you think? Crème Brûlée or Coffee Heath Bar?” His little tail wagged even as he bit my earlobe and tugged painfully. “Coffee Heath Bar it is, boy. Of course you can share.”
    I disentangled him, then turned to go, but something outside caught my eye.
    A man.
    Two stories below me, my grumpy, bruised neighbor was lying on his roof, in the back where it was nearly flat. He’d put on more clothes (alas), and his white T-shirt practically