Page 18 of The Wives

Debbie drops the folders onto the counter, then scoots next to me, standing on her tiptoes to catch a glimpse of my phone. Her broad expanse of hip and breast brushes against my arm, and I shoot her a look that I hope says, Back off! Some of the other nurses and I have a running joke about it—if anyone gets too nosy you call them Debbie and tell them to back off.

“What are you looking at?” she chirps as I lift my elbows to prevent her from seeing the screen.

Some people have no concept of personal space. I hold the phone to my chest, the screen hidden, and frown at her.

“An ex-girlfriend,” she says matter-of-factly, folding her arms across her ample bosom. “I check on Bill’s all the time.”

Debbie and Bill have been married for as long as I’ve been alive. What ex-girlfriends could still be around to pose a threat to their deep-rooted marriage? I want to ask, but asking Debbie anything means an hour-long conversation. But my curiosity is piqued, so I ask, anyway. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, honey. When you’ve been around as long as me...”

I soften at her tone. Clearly, I’m not the only woman who suffers from insecurities, who lets them get to me until I act irrationally. I structure a question in my mind, one that won’t give anything about my situation away.

“How do you deal with it—the doubts about whether he loves you?”

Debbie blinks at me, surprised. “It’s not his love I’m worried about,” she says. “It’s theirs.”

Someone walks past us carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Debbie waits until she’s around the corner and out of earshot before continuing.

“Women can be very conniving, if you know what I mean.” She gives me a look that says I should know what she means. But I’ve never had many friends, just Anna, really, and my mother and sister. But yeah, if you pay attention to TV and movies, they paint women in an untrustworthy light.

“I guess so,” I say.

“Well, I wouldn’t put anything past them. Or myself for that matter. I know what I’m capable of.”

Our heads bent together, I try to picture cheerful, plump Debbie as the conniving type she’s referencing and can’t.

Debbie looks around to make sure no one can overhear us, and then she leans so close to me I can smell the cherry blossom shower gel she uses.

“I stole him from my best friend.”

“Bill?” I ask, confused.

Bill has a potbelly that sits on top of two spindly legs and only a horseshoe pattern of hair left on his head. It’s hard to believe he ever needed stealing.

“And you still, um...look at her profile?”

“Of course.” Debbie pulls a stick of gum from her pocket and offers me half. I shake my head and she folds the stick onto her tongue in a perfect half.

“Why?”

“Because women don’t ever stop wanting what they want. They see another man who’s considerate and handsome, and it reminds them of what they’re missing in their own lives.”

There is a bitter taste in my mouth. I wish I’d taken the half stick of gum she’d offered. If Debbie is worried about Bill’s exes twenty years past, how much should I be worrying about the women my husband fucks on the regular?

Just then, her pager buzzes, and she shoots me a wry look as she unclips it from her hip and glances at the screen.

“Have to run, doll. Talk later.”

I watch her go, the wide gait of her steps as her white Reeboks squeak down the hall. Before she reaches the junction near the elevators, she turns around and faces me. Her arms pump at her sides while she walks backward.

“It’s even better when you spy on them in person, by the way.” She winks and then she’s gone.

Nosy, annoying, no-personal-space Debbie just might be my new best friend. I hear a ping on my phone. When I look down, a notification has appeared at the top of the screen. It’s from the dating app I downloaded. Regina has sent you a message.

ELEVEN

The front door swings open and Seth walks in, carrying two large bags of takeout. Ah, it’s Thursday. I’d forgotten. Lately, all I think about is my husband’s wives. Somewhere along the way, Seth has been replaced. I give him half a smile. We both know it’s forced. A bouquet of white roses rests in the crook of his arm. Roses for no reason, or roses because he sent me a text meant for one of the others? Normally, I’d rush over to relieve him of what he’s carrying, but this time I stay where I am. He never even attempted to explain his mistaken text. And I waited all week for something...anything. My mood is dour—and I don’t plan on faking a good mood for his sake.

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