Page 3 of Such a Good Wife

Rachel has her door closed when I finish, and I hear an angsty, acoustic, festival-sounding song turned up loudly in the background, so decide to leave it until tomorrow.

In the living room, Bennett is sitting at the coffee table, coloring. My sweet baby. I wish so desperately that I could wrap him up in my arms and kiss and hug him, tickle him, and joke with him, but he’s the most sensitive soul I’ve ever known, so I pour myself a little more wine and sit by his side, hoping he lets me have a moment with him. He doesn’t say anything for a minute and then...

“You wanna color the Big Bird? You can’t have the Transformers page ’cause it’s mine, but you can have this one.” He pushes a ripped-out page across the table. It’s Big Bird with one yellow leg colored in. “It’s for babies, so you might not want to,” he continues.

“I still like Big Bird. I guess that makes me kinda babyish, huh?”

“He’s not real, he’s just a guy in a suit.”

“Right.” I smile, taking the page and finding a crayon to use.

“Adults can still like that stuff though. Mr. Mancini at school calls it nostalgia,” he says. I stifle a laugh.

“That’s very true.”

“Is Mr. Mancini in the Mafia?” he asks, without taking focus off his Transformer. I don’t let my expression show my confused amusement.

“Pretty sure he’s not. Why?” I say, matter-of-factly.

“’Cause his name is Mancini, like Vincent Mancini.”

“Vincent Mancini?”

“You know. The Godfather.”

“You watched The Godfather?” I ask, wondering when he would have seen it.

“It’s only the best movie ever written.”

“Says who?” I laugh.

“Uh. The internet.” He looks at me, hoping that I agree.

“Oh, well, that’s a good point. But I don’t think he’s any relation.”

“That’s good,” he says, the topic apparently resolved.

“Yeah,” I agree, coloring the rest of Big Bird. I’m so incredibly in love with my son in this moment. The times I see the true Ben come out, and he’s totally himself, are breathtaking.

When the kids are asleep, I take my time before getting into bed. I gaze past myself in the mirror, removing eyeliner with a makeup wipe and closing my eyes against the intrusive heat I feel between my legs at the thought of him. I push the thought away and undress, pulling on a T-shirt and clean underwear. In bed, Collin is on his laptop, but he closes it when I sit down.

“Hey, beautiful.”

“Hey. Everything okay with work?” I ask, knowing the answer.

“Eh. It will be. Sorry I got busy there.” He puts his readers away and shakes his head.

“The hospital project?” I feel obliged to ask.

“Can you imagine having a spinal fusion and a goddamn train full of Amazon Prime packages paralyzes you? It’s unfathomable.” He says this like I’m hearing this for the first time. I smile at him.

“Sorry,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. “No work talk in the bedroom. I promised.”

“It’s okay.” I pull the down comforter over my legs and rub lotion into my hands and up my arms.

“No. It’s a sanctuary. Who said that? Someone wise, I think.” He always pokes fun at me and my insistence that no TV, work or arguing belong in the bedroom. He pulls me over to him and kisses me. So comfortable, so innocent. I breathe into that familiar, faded scent of Dolce & Gabbana left on his neck, the feel of his sharp whiskers, grown out from this morning’s shave, sandy against my skin, and I want to cry.

All I see are threads of memory strung together from the other night. The ride home I should have refused, a benign acquaintance turned more, his mouth on mine, the keys unlocking his door, every time I said yes, never trying to stop it. I can’t bear it. As tears run down the sides of my face, I push them away quickly before they fall on Collin’s bare skin. Sweet Collin, kissing down my neck, his discarded reading glasses about to tip off the side of the nightstand in front of a photo of Ben and Rachel.

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