Jesus, Wendy, do you hear yourself?”, “Who are we talking about? He throws some furniture around and quits his job and rebuffs Jen at every turn. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. “You’re right,” she says, trying to look like someone trying not to look bored. My entire life, the sum total of my existence, was contained behind that wall, and it seemed to me that I should be able to step out of the car, walk through the front door, and simply reclaim it. Fuck you very much. So when I came home early on Jen’s thirty-third birthday to find her lying spread-eagle on the bed, with some guy’s wide, doughy ass hovering above her, clenching and unclenching to the universal beat of procreation, his hands jammed under her ass, lifting her up into each thrust, her fingers leaving white marks where they pressed into his back, well, it took some time to process. I will definitely be buying the film from Amazon Instant Video. Because even now, even after all that she’s done to me, there’s still something in her eyes that makes me want to shelter her at any cost, even though I know it’s really me who needs the protection. Do you, generally, find the humorous moments or the somber moments in your fiction easier to write? Were there any characters you would have liked to see developed further? "It gets better," Wendy says. . Dad’s dead,” Wendy says offhandedly, like it’s happened before, like it happens every day. Neither is an option at this juncture, so I have to content myself with slamming the trunk harder than necessary. “No.” I hang up and imagine her slamming her phone down while the expletives fly in a machine-gun spray from her lips. And my Jen didn’t exist anymore, had dispersed into mist right before my eyes. In the end, I kept the watch; there was never really any question. Or an unlikely scene about a fire burning a very sensitive area. I stopped in the foyer to light the candles with a long-stemmed oven lighter bought specifically for this purpose. This author has a unique way of writing and I can feel or sense his voice in his writing. We did some fun, nasty stuff from time to time, Jen and I—positions, props, creamy desserts, et cetera—but I fell squarely into that category of men who simply never feel the desire to bring their asshole into the mix. Full access is for members only. I thought this was a great read. “I’m flying in with the kids tonight. Bring your club to Amazon Book Clubs, start a new book club and invite your friends to join, or find a club that’s right for you for free. I've written original screenplays and adapting my own book was by far the hardest script I've ever undertaken. I’d been married long enough to know that the remark was wrong and unkind and not remotely constructive, but I said it anyway. The clues must have been piling up for a while already, like unread e-mails, just a click away from being read. I have to smile, even as I chafe, as always, at our family’s patented inability to express emotion during watershed events. The best I could hope for was that she’d cheat on Wade by sleeping with her horny therapist, but was it actually cheating if you cheated on your illicit lover? And so, in the absence of any reaction, I stood there frozen, watching Jen’s face as Wade pumped away at her like the piston of a wide, hairy engine. Top subscription boxes – right to your door, © 1996-2020,, Inc. or its affiliates. I stopped in the foyer to light the candles with a long-stemmed oven lighter bought specifically for this purpose. The kids are Ryan and Cole, six and three, towheaded, cherub-cheeked boys who never met a room they couldn’t trash in two minutes flat, and Serena, Wendy’s seven-month-old baby girl. So his actual death itself was less an event than a final sad detail. There’s nothing in life, really, to prepare you for the experience of seeing your wife have sex with another man. Phillip is our youngest brother, born nine years after me. Just $12 for 3 months or Parenting & Families (fiction & nonfiction). Compared by critics to Tom Perrotta and Nick Hornby, Jonathan Tropper deftly merges caustic one-liners, zany slapstick, and raw emotion in this hilarious yet heartbreaking story. Praise for This Is Where I Leave You“In a wry domestic tone nicely akin to Tom Perotta’s, Mr. Tropper...introduces a darkly entertaining bunch of dysfunctional relatives....This author’s strong suit is wisecracks, the more irreverent the better.”—Janet Maslin, The New York Times“Hilarious and often heartbreaking...a novel that charms by allowing for messes, loose ends and the reality that there's only one sure ending for everyone.”—The Los Angeles Times“[A] magnificently funny family saga....Read and weep with laughter. I had left work early to pick up the cake, a chocolate-strawberry cheesecake, her favorite. I haven’t seen her in a while, haven’t returned her calls or stopped thinking about her. On a positive note, it doesn’t take long to read thus reducing the number of hours wasted. “There’s no reason this can’t be amicable,” she says. Paul is my older brother by sixteen months. “I’m always like this. The question, in its simplest form, was this: How far up Wade Boulanger’s ass could I jam a chocolate-strawberry cheesecake with thirty-three burning candles and one for good luck?