Page 11 of Such a Good Wife

“Yeah, why not?”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, casually. “Might be an option. You guys have fun. I’ll text if I end up going.”

“Okay. Love ya.”

After we hang up, the Uber takes less than five minutes to arrive. I feel a flutter in my stomach as I walk into the bookstore, a little more confident this week, but when I arrive I get half-hearted, mumbled greetings from the table—an anticlimactic moment—as everyone is busy passing out copies and offering disclaimers about their work to one another.

“Do you have copies?” Jonathan asks.

“Oh, I thought I’d just read mine, save a tree, ya know.”

“That’s fine, though it’s easier for us to read along so we can make notes as we go. Can’t guarantee you’ll get detailed feedback this way.”

“I’ll take my chances,” I say, smiling. Then I see him. Luke Ellison is cornered by about a half dozen women. The bookstore has moved his reading to the back of the store, and I’m pretty sure it’s because Jonathan complained about the noise. Luke looks past the women, his eyes darting around the bookstore; he pauses and cocks his head a moment, straining to see into the café. Who is he looking for?

Then his eyes meet mine and his face lights up. Or did I imagine that? I look behind me to make sure he’s not waving at someone else, but he smiles and points at me, making a “you” gesture so I know it’s me. I smile and wave back. Then I quickly drop my head and sit in my place at the table, feeling distracted and confused. Did I really wear this dress because it’s hot outside? Now is not the time to question myself. I am confident. I can let these strangers hear my writing and not crawl into a hole and chug a bottle of wine when it’s over. I take a deep breath and refocus.

I can hear a faint, low rumble of a male voice from across the bookstore when Luke’s reading starts, but it’s not upstaging Jonathan and his feedback this time, so after letting everyone else go first, I finally agree to read my story. My hands are trembling involuntarily, so I keep my pages on the wooden tabletop and hold my hands in my lap as I read without touching the paper.

Before the house and Collin and kids, I never thought that writing about my life was an option. There was nothing to write. A teacher once told me, only write what you know. I’ll never understand that so-called rule. If J. K. Rowling wrote about her own life—about what she “knows,” then goddamn it, I’ll have what she’s having.

For lack of imagination though, I take the advice and write what I know, and it’s cathartic. I am not writing about magic and fantasy or the meaning of life, but what I am writing is relatable, honest. I read my story about Collin’s dad’s funeral. I didn’t know where else to start. I remember how Collin hadn’t known how to weep and simultaneously be strong for his family. He was so afraid that if he let himself crack, the cancer of his sorrow would spread and damage his kids, so he never shed a tear. Claire was led up to the casket first, and she’d made a wailing sound I’ll never forget and tried to get into the casket to lie next to her husband one more time. Ben had begun screaming and run out of the funeral home. Claire never really spoke much again. Her health had seemed stable before that moment. Rachel says she’s dying of a broken heart. None of us have ever been the same, really.

I’d turned all of this into a sort of short story. When I finish reading, I see Vanessa wipe away a tear. CJ does a weird slow-clap, and I’m elated that I wasn’t laughed out of the bookstore. I can’t believe that I just poured out the ugliness of my own life and...they liked it. It’s not New Yorker bound, but it’s a start. I smile shyly, but inside I’m so excited I’m freaking out a bit. I feel accomplished. Accomplished in a way that’s not the same as motherhood. I listen to a few notes they offer, but we’ve gone overtime tonight. It’s almost ten and they’re closing up.

I’m still riding the high after everyone else has left. I sit at the table a moment in the semidarkness, taking it all in. Then I take out my phone to order an Uber home. In a normal household, Rachel might be old enough, at thirteen, to hold down the fort for a half hour while Collin picks me up, but Ben’s behavior can be unpredictable and Claire scares her even though she’d never say it, so I won’t ask Collin to get me. Loading up the kids at this hour would be ridiculous.

Before I can punch my location into the app, I hear a voice behind me.

“Fancy seeing you again.” Luke is there, on his way out it looks like.

“Hi.”

“You came back.”

“I came back, yes.”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping, but it gets quiet in here close to closing. I may have heard a bit of your story from the café.”

“Oh my God. Really? No.” I am mortified.

“It was really good.”

“No.” I gather my things, not knowing what else to do, trying to brush off the compliment I don’t know how to take.

“Can I buy you a drink across the street?” He nods in the direction of a tavern a few doors down. I freeze.

“I’m married,” I blurt out, like a total basket case, but he doesn’t react the way I thought he would.

“That’s okay. I was just intrigued by your story.”

“Oh.” I’m embarrassed. Was I being presumptuous? “Sorry. That’s so...that’s nice of you to say.”

“No funny business,” he says, holding up his hands. “The offer stands if you ever want any help with it.” He starts to go.

“No. I mean, yes. I’m sorry. Of course. I would love to hear what you have to say, I mean that would be...”

I don’t say “a total dream come true.” I am high from the reaction I already received tonight. I have not done something for myself since I don’t even know when. To be praised for work that has nothing to do with how much you are able to take as a caregiver seems like...well, for a moment it seems like I’m living someone else’s life. Why would I turn this opportunity down?

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