{"product_id":"the-intermission-isbn-9780399586866","title":"The Intermission","description":"\u003cb\u003eA HelloGiggles Best New Release\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA PopSugar Best Book of July\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA BookBub Editor's Pick\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA SheReads Best Book of Summer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA GoodReads Buzzy New Release\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Mind Body Green Best Book of July\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA PureWow Best Beach Read of Summer 2018\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An effortless page-turner, almost a movie treatment more than a novel...intelligent commercial fiction.\"--\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter five years of marriage, Cass Coyne has lost some of her boundless confidence. Her husband sees their ups and downs as normal challenges in a healthy relationship, but Cass lies awake at night wondering what you do when you need a break from your marriage?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt comes as a shock to Jonathan when Cass persuades him to try a marital \"intermission\": a six-month separation during which they'll decide if the comfortable life they've built together is still the one they both want.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSix months apart from their beloved dog is a different story, so they agree to meet once a month for a custody exchange.  Time apart on opposite coasts makes the Coynes realize their problems may lie deeper than sweaty gym socks left on the bed and an empty container of milk put back in the fridge. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCan a marriage experiment go too far for two people who once thought they had it all figured out?\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Intermission\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The snappy dialogue makes this an effortless page-turner, almost a movie treatment more than a novel...intelligent commercial fiction.”\u003ci\u003e—The Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Intermission \u003c\/i\u003eis a thoughtful look at the complexities of marriage, delivering deep truths about how we share a life with another person. It will have you wondering: how well do I really know my spouse?”\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003ePopSugar\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A multifaceted look at the difficulties and rewards of marriage.”\u003ci\u003e—Kirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e “Entertaining marriage saga... Friedland insightfully dissects motives, lies, and love in this engrossing deconstruction of a bad marriage.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Expertly paced and eerily realistic, this novel will make readers think twice about the line between deception and mystery in any relationship.”\u003ci\u003e—Booklist \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This fast-paced read will have you turning pages all night to see if Cass and Jonathan will be able to save their marriage.”\u003ci\u003e—Salisbury Daily Times\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “In a time when open relationships and other less traditional dynamics are becoming more common, this is a fun beach read that explores the many ways we can love and be loved.”—Mind Body Green\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“We all know that relationships aren’t always what they seem on the outside. But The Intermission takes things a step further, going inside of a marriage that’s on the rocks. It’s about Jonathan and Cass, a husband and wife that decide to take a six-month break from their relationship to see if it’s what they really want. As we all know, there are two sides to every story. And through alternating perspectives,\u003ci\u003e The Intermission\u003c\/i\u003e delivers both.”\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eHello Giggles\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Through her wonderful writing and pitch-perfect storytelling, Elyssa Friedland examines how far we would or should go to salvage a marriage. This book is smart, tender and thought-provoking. I loved it.”—Allison Winn Scotch, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eBetween Me and You\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"With precision and empathy, Elyssa Friedland offers a fresh take on a timeless question: Just how honest should you\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003ereally be with your spouse? \u003ci\u003eThe Intermission \u003c\/i\u003eis a smart, moving, and refreshingly candid examination of the way small omissions can lead to enormous rifts in a marriage. I couldn’t put it down.” —Camille Pagán, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWoman Last Seen in Her Thirties\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"Friedland's engaging characters and smart writing style will hook you from the first page. Soulful and bittersweet, \u003ci\u003eThe Intermission\u003c\/i\u003e puts a young couple under a microscope to show how one small crack in a marriage can lead to many crevasses, and how the struggle to put the pieces back together can seem insurmountable.\"—Julie Lawson Timmer, author of \u003ci\u003eMrs. Saint and the Defectives\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Intermission\u003c\/i\u003e deftly pulls apart the puzzle of one couple's marriage and lays the pieces bare, posing the question: would you walk away from your marriage in order to save it? A provocative, insightful look at the intricacies of marriage, the role of fate, and the unpredictable nature of love.\"—Jamie Brenner, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Husband Hour\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Smart, captivating, and expertly crafted, \u003ci\u003eThe Intermission\u003c\/i\u003e takes a fresh spin on how one couple hits the pause button to reboot their marriage. I cheered and I cringed through their rises and falls as they dealt with the obstacles in their marriage to rediscover themselves and their relationship. A delightful read that sucked me in. Perfect for book clubs and summer reading. I highly recommend.” — Kerry Lonsdale, \u003ci\u003eWall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With all the drama and intensity of live theater, Elyssa Friedland puts a seemingly solid marriage on display — and through the toughest of tests — revealing quirky flaws, unraveling dark secrets, and sparking emotions from tenderness to fury. Fans of Sarah Dunn and Taylor Jenkins Reid will relish the raw honesty and high-stakes tension as the pasts of Cass and Jonathan come roaring into the present.”—Amy Poeppel, author of \u003ci\u003eLimelight\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"A pitch-perfect beach read that pulls back the curtain on what really happens after we say I do.\"—Jo Piazza, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eCharlotte Walsh Likes to Win\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Intermission \u003c\/i\u003edigs into the bedrock of the Coyne's marriage, exposing the strengths and vulnerabilities of its roots. Friedland builds characters who are both selfless and selfish at different times, resulting in a relatable and compelling read. Book clubs will have much to dissect.”—Abby Fabiaschi, author of \u003ci\u003eI Liked My Life\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Taking a pause to dissect what makes a marriage tick is terrifying, enlightening, and, in the case of Cass Coyne, even hilarious....With observations both acute and quirky, Elyssa Friedland points out the flaws and perfections that make marriage work, the secrets they contain, and how a desire for total honesty can bring both pain and freedom.\"—Maureen Sherry, author of \u003ci\u003eOpening Belle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"A courageous and clever look at the frustrations and disappointments even the best marriages face. Elyssa Friedland pulls no punches with this provocative story that challenges our expectations about commitment and love.\"—Lynda Cohen Loigman, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Two-Family House\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I absolutely loved \u003ci\u003eThe Intermission\u003c\/i\u003e, a smart, thoughtful exploration of the nature of marriage and relationships.\"—Brenda Janowitz, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Dinner Party\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for Love and Miss Communication\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"Witty and hilarious...a love story for the 21st century.\"—Emily Giffin, New York Times bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"Funny, fast-paced, charming.\"—Jennifer Belle, bestselling author of High Maintenance and The Seven Year Bitch\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"A witty, wonderful, and thoroughly modern love story. Friedland's writing is sharp and funny, tender and true. I couldn't put it down.\"—Cristina Alger, author of The Darlings\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"A delicious and timely novel. Friedland takes a look at how our addiction to social media brings us together while keeping us apart.\"—Molly Jong-Fast, author of The Social Climber's Handbook\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"A witty, modern love story not to be missed.\"—The Gazette (Iowa)\u003cb\u003eElyssa Friedland\u003c\/b\u003e is a graduate of Yale University and Columbia Law School and lives with her husband and three children in New York City. \u003ci\u003eThe Intermission\u003c\/i\u003e is her second novel.1. Cass\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cass Coyne was thinking a lot about her marriage lately.      Particularly, she found herself wondering how much joy she should      derive from it. Or maybe joy was ambitious, and it was really      complacency she should be after. She just didn't know what was      normal to expect to feel on a daily basis. It didn't seem correct      that after five years of marriage she was evaluating her      relationship with her husband like it was an item in the grocery      store she was considering purchasing. A melon probed for firmness.      Sweetness. Or that she sometimes pictured her marriage like a snow      globe, the delicate flakes inside representing the past, present      and future, and that no matter how it all shook out, it didn't      seem to settle properly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e These weren't questions that could easily be raised with her      friends, some of whom would give their right arm for a husband      like hers. Others would think the mere question was childish-their      modus operandi was to get up, go to work, make dinner, have sex,      maybe make a baby, rinse and repeat. Besides, \"normal\" was too      relative a term about which to have a meaningful discussion. So      was \"happiness.\" Cass just wanted to know, in the recent days      where minutes stretched into hours and weeks blurred into months,      if it was normal (there was that word again) that at times (only      rarely!) she wished she was single. That she'd never married      Jonathan Coyne. That she'd never clinked beers with him at      Paragon, where the serious types at Brown went to get wasted. That      she hadn't called out to him on Park Avenue and flung her arms      around him six years later. But how could she help it? He was the      answer to everything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her husband-before he became that-used to remind her of a nearly      ripe farm-stand peach, a project almost completed. He was someone      in need of finishing touches, a man who would be so grateful to      her for getting him a better haircut and jazzing up his apartment      that he'd fail to see that she was truly the one in need of      finishing. And that day on Park Avenue? When they finally came      face-to-face? Well, he had flashed her the warmest of smiles when      the recognition set in, sending a heat coursing through her      chilled body. At that fateful moment, she marveled how a person      could literally transmit electricity to another person without      even touching. Lately, though, she wondered if her body had just      been responding to a spike in temperature after leaving the artic      chill of the office tower where she was working. Maybe excessive      air-conditioning was to blame for the subsequent trajectory of her      life. Of course she didn't really believe that. She had charged      into her marriage with eyes wide open. Back then, Jonathan was a      doorway with an inviting threshold, one she had no inclination to      sidestep. After all, she'd beaten a path right to it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In their king-sized bed (a bed of her own making, she thought      wryly), Jonathan snored peacefully. Snoring. It was caused by a      narrowing of the upper airway during sleep. Just the thought of it      made her feel like she was choking. But every night, Jonathan      snored comfortably next to her. He'd always snored, or at least      she thought he had. Thinking back over the course of their      relationship was surprisingly like gaping at something through      foggy glass. It was just that now, the snores were deafening, and      still Jonathan managed to look at ease as he sputtered out those      throaty chaaaa-shoooos. Sometimes she had to wonder if he was      faking it. I'm trying to sleep; don't talk to me, his pretend      snores were conveying. Well, that was fine. She did that too      sometimes. He would tap her on the shoulder and whisper, \"Cass,\"      wanting to chat or maybe have sex, and she'd utter something      unintelligible in return, while in her head she held back a      perfectly logical response. When did that pattern of theirs start?      Another thing she couldn't quite remember.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She looked up at the blurry red numbers dancing on the ceiling.      Jonathan had insisted on buying one of those alarm clocks that      project the time upward. He adored gadgets-it went along with his      penchant for science, math, numbers-anything with a concrete      solution and logic behind it. She argued that the new device would      make their room look like a spaceship. Who was too lazy to rotate      their head? In truth, she loved it, smiling to herself each time      she didn't have to turn over to make out the time on the night      table. Especially now that she wasn't sleeping well, watching the      numbers tick by on her back was almost hypnotic. Not that she ever      told Jonathan how much she liked that glowing metronome in the      dark, choosing instead to add her tolerance of it to a growing      stockpile of bargaining chips she maintained. Was that normal too?      That she treated their marriage like an accountant maintaining a      ledger of checks and balances? She was hardly in a position to do      anything of the sort. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Relief took hold of her when she saw it was 5:00 a.m., and she      anchored the spindly tips of her shoulder blades more deeply into      the Tempur-Pedic mattress. What a funny thing, a Tempur-Pedic. A      way to share without having to compromise. If only all things in      life, in marriage, were that easily reconciled. It was morning      enough outside-sharp slivers of light attacked the crevices      between the curtains and the window. Five was much better than      three, the time she had grown accustomed to waking recently. Why      was it that when she had to get to work, the sound of her alarm      clock at seven thirty was the most excruciating noise, rousing her      from a sleep that felt almost drug-induced, it was so deep and so      pleasurable? But since she'd stopped working, sleep had evaded      her, wakefulness creeping up on her in the still of the night like      it never had before. It had to be anxiety, that menacing beast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cass eyed Puddles sleeping in his usual spot, stretched on his      back like a hysterical lady on a fainting couch. He was covered      partly with the pilled cashmere throw ornamenting the otherwise      useless armchair in the corner of the room. Their snooty      decorator, Carmel, had talked them into it. Apparently having a      master bedroom with only a king-sized bed and a television did not      qualify as a room, so a cozy club chair was purchased. Puddles      loved to sleep in their room, even though his crate and toys were      set up in the spare bedroom, where he happily watched Animal      Planet during the day on an enormous flat-screen TV. It was a bit      absurd, she knew, the way they had tricked out the adjacent room      with a bone-shaped area rug, canine wall decals and felt baskets      overflowing with chew toys. The minute they had a baby Puddles      would be displaced and \"his room\" would be transformed into a      light blue or light pink paradise, but not until someone was hired      to clean it with hazmat-level intensity. The poor guy didn't      realize how soon that day was coming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You're up,\" Jonathan said, but it sounded more like a question.      She hadn't noticed his snoring had quieted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes, I'm up. Was I stirring too much?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's fine. I'll be able to fall back asleep.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Of course you will, she thought. You'll just press your \"sleep\"      button and drift back into dreamland. Lately, Cass found herself      resenting good sleepers the most, even more than loud talkers,      slow orderers and unwanted touchers (the ones who plucked your      loose threads or a detached eyelash without permission). Now it      was those people who could get a reliable eight hours of shut-eye      each night who had become the most detestable, even if that      included her harmless husband.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm gonna take a shower now. I'll be quiet.\" She slipped out of      bed and drifted toward the bathroom. This morning she chose to      stand smack-dab in the center of the shower, letting the rainfall      faucet pound her evenly all over. Hot drops rolled down her face      like molten tears, minus the saltiness. She licked her lips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"We have sex once a week,\" she said out loud, but quietly. She      liked to speak to an imaginary therapist every now and then. It      was cheaper than real therapy, not that she needed to be terribly      worried about such an expenditure. The freedom to spend money      still managed to surprise her every time she swiped her AmEx for      an overpriced latte or a new pair of heels at Bergdorf Goodman.      How could it not, when she grew up in a home where the cable and      electric were turned off regularly and Cass, by age six, could      recognize and decode the colors of the eviction notices stapled to      their front door? A green notice was a threat but still vaguely      friendly-as if to say everyone over at the sheriff's office was      rooting for you to get your shit together and pay what you owed.      Yellow meant you had thirty days to scrounge up the rent;      red-well, red meant Cass should start packing up her room      immediately. Red meant she and her mom were closer and closer to      ending up in one of those trailer parks near the highway. God, she      hated that color. Didn't have a stitch of red decor in the      apartment she and Jonathan shared and she even avoided using it at      work when possible. Marketing the revival of The Scarlet Letter      had proved especially difficult. Her boss had chewed her out for      the first time ever when she presented the poster with the pink A.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She didn't love her husband because he made a very good living (or      for the comfortable nest egg his family provided), but she sure      found it attractive that being Mrs. Jonathan Coyne meant that her      mail was a stack of Architectural Digests and not letters from      collection agencies. That she didn't have to try a dozen pieces of      plastic before sales clerks said to her, relief and pity in their      eyes, \"Okay, that one went through.\" There was no shame in      appreciating her lifestyle: on the contrary, she was proud. Up      until recently, she had been contributing nicely too. And she'd      continue to do so again, once . . . once . . . next steps were      decided upon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The waning of their sex life, among other things, was worrying      her, though she was resistant to visiting a shrink to talk about      it. For one thing, Jonathan was dismissive of talk therapy. When      she told him about a coworker starting couples counseling, he      sniggered and said how grateful he was that Cass was so not the      type to drag him to anything like that. And going alone to talk      through things on a couch didn't seem like it would yield much of      a solution. Her friends told her their weekly sessions were      essentially monologues, and you just had to pray the entire time      you weren't going to run into anyone you knew in the waiting room.      How would she respond when the therapist inevitably asked, \"What      brings you here?\" Could she really answer, \"I'm not sure,\" and      then expect him to tease it out of her? Was there even anything to      tease? A subtle layer of confusion clouding her everyday routine.      An anxiety that shook the sleep out of her. The persistent      revisiting of her past actions. Yes, it seemed there was most      definitely something to be discussed, but once the genie was out      of the bottle, restoring it and locking it back in the deep folds      of her subconscious would be impossible. Talking to a bar of soap      had fewer repercussions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Actually, it's more like once every two weeks,\" she continued      aloud. If she was going to unburden herself, even if only to the      glass door getting socked by the showerhead, it might as well be      the truth. \"My husband works a lot. I used to as well.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tell me more about that, the therapist responded. Or he didn't. It      was always a he in her mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"There's nothing more to say. I just thought you should know. It      seems to be an important subject.\" Cass looked at her waterproof      watch, saw it was 5:10, and decided the session was over. Another      advantage to an invisible shrink.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She worked the fragrant shampoo with the Le Bristol label on the      mini bottle through her hair, scrubbing her scalp more vigorously      than usual. How many bottles of that shampoo did she have left?      She had filched about a dozen on her and Jonathan's trip to Paris      a year ago. He'd had to go for work and she had tagged along. He      didn't want her to bring home the bottles, bellyaching that      airport security would think it was some kind of liquid bomb, and      even if the bottles were cleared, they would surely leak in their      suitcase. His undertone: If you want fancy bath products, just go      buy them-in America. She acquiesced, but stuffed them in her      luggage at the last minute anyway. They never discussed it when      they got home, though Jonathan could hardly have missed the tidy      row of them in their shared medicine cabinet. Lemon verbena. It      smelled nice. She'd still never looked up what verbena was. A      plant, probably. Something for rich people.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What kind of rebellion was it anyway to provoke her virtuous      husband by stealing toiletries? Was it just to show him she wasn't      embarrassed about where she came from? She was embarrassed, so      what kind of move was it to try to convince him otherwise? Her      insecurities fed her need to prove something to Jonathan, and      though she recognized the vicious cycle, she simply couldn't break      it. What was it about feeling unworthy of Jonathan that brought      out the worst in her? Basic common sense would dictate that she      should be her best self around him: compassionate, loving and      agreeable when it came to shampoo. But the repressed sense of      inferiority-the depths of which only she knew-made her constantly      feel the need to test her husband, who deserved none of this in      his life. She wanted to pinch herself to make it stop-this      gruesome habit of playing with fire. Sometimes when she laid her      head on her pillow at night, after Jonathan said his ritualistic      \"Night, love you,\" she'd swear to herself that the next day she'd      be different. She'd pour his orange juice, kiss him tenderly      before he headed for work, and tell him how lucky she knew she      was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 2. Jon(athan)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was standing in front of a Bloomberg Terminal in the hallway      when the new girl approached.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Mr. Coyne, can you review these memos before I include them in      the investor packet? I looked up several years of precedents      before drafting, but I'm happy to make any changes you'd like.\"","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304947175653,"sku":"NP9780399586866","price":26.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780399586866.jpg?v=1767739959","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-intermission-isbn-9780399586866","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}