Page 12 of Such a Good Wife

I call Collin. I tell him that a few of us are gonna grab a drink after group and chat. That’s not a lie. That’s perfectly honest. That’s what I’m doing. Maybe not a “few” of us, but that’s just semantics. It’s professional. He tells me to have fun, that he’s thrilled for me, and he’ll be in bed catching up on a golf thing he DVR’d when I get in.

I sit nervously across from Luke at a pub called Stella’s. It’s a place I’ve been many times over the years, but tonight the familiar wooden booths and sticky rows of bottles behind the dark bar seem unfamiliar, intimidating.

He tells me about his years trying to write the great American novel, but no one wanted it, so he tried his hand at sex, and—

“What do ya know? Sex sells.”

I sip at my vodka gimlet and we talk about the authors we love. I don’t talk about my kids or Claire. It feels like a betrayal somehow, and I don’t know why. But we have plenty to say regardless.

It feels like a teenage romance as we go back and forth emphatically about music, showing each other videos on our phones when we come across one the other hasn’t seen. I’m tipsy as I exclaim that anyone who can’t admit Ray LaMontagne is a genius doesn’t deserve to live, and he puts my number in his phone and texts me a few book titles I have to read. We order a couple more drinks, and he laughs at my jokes. They’re not that funny, but the alcohol has loosened me up and I have little inhibitions at the moment. He tells me he’s leaving for Florence sometime in the fall.

“Like...moving there?” I ask. “To Italy?”

“Just spending six or so weeks writing.”

“In Italy,” I repeat.

“Yeah, why not?”

“Why not!” I sort of slur, gesturing widely with my arms. “Why not?”

“Have you ever been?” he asks, and I’m quiet a moment.

“I almost went once. During college. Didn’t work out.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“So. So you can just, like, you can just decide you feel like writing in Italy for a while, and just like that, you go do it.”

“I guess.”

“Wow.”

“Well, it’s my full-time job, if you look at it that way. Obviously it’s a mobile line of work, so I like to go where the inspiration strikes.”

“That—wow—I just...I can’t imagine that life. When do you leave?”

“Not sure yet. I’ll feel it out.”

“Really? Just whenever the mood strikes?” I ask. Perhaps it comes out bitterly.

“I suppose you could say that, yeah. Right now I like being here.” He looks in my eyes and gives a shy smile. I swallow down a lump rising in my throat at the sudden realization, that no matter how long I keep a tiny sliver of hope alive that one day I could be a writer, hanging out in Italy or wherever I fancied, that is no longer any sort of possibility. I have children. Ben’s school is my top priority and Rachel has sports and friends. Collin hates to fly. Two-hour flights max. Not to mention that I haven’t written anything and I’m not independently wealthy, so there’s that. It’s ridiculous to even entertain for a second. I stare at Luke, wondering if he appreciates his exotic life and freedom.

“I mean, I know you have responsibilities here, of course. But if you ever needed a writing getaway, my place is open. I hope you don’t take that the wrong way, just sayin’.”

“No, I mean...that’s very nice of you.”

I think a moment of how the conversation would go, asking Collin if he can work full-time and also take care of Ben (a full-time job by itself) and Claire (also a full-time job by itself) while I go find myself in Italy for a month, and laugh to myself a little. Fantasies are nice sometimes. But when they are so far from reality, they’re just depressing.

“I should probably get going,” I say, and start to get my things together.

“Of course. Um, you’re...driving?” he asks, and pulls my chair out as I stand.

“I...didn’t drive. Actually. No.”

“Oh.”

“I planned to just hop in a cab.”

---