Page 24 of Such a Good Wife

I want to scoop her up in my arms and shield her from all of this. Instead, I’ve put her in danger. What would kids find to use and make her life hell if my secret was ever exposed? It could be anything. Luke’s writing is provocative, almost pornographic. There would be countless ways they could spin the situation and make it their mission to ruin her.

I take Rachel’s hands and hold them inside of mine on her lap. I want to say something magical to fix the situation and transform her mood. A few years ago, I would only need to suggest constructing a tent out of couch cushions and bedsheets and watching Finding Nemo with pints of Rocky Road, and no matter what her trouble was, it would be forgotten. It’s different now.

“Kids are shitty,” I say. Not my best parenting moment, but her eyes widen in surprise, and then she laughs. I laugh with her. I tell her to get her music for her dance number and we can work on it. I push the grill and the patio furniture to the side to clear a space on the deck, and she runs back to her room for her Bluetooth speaker, delighted she’s allowed to stay up late, and we get to work.

On Thursday, I am excited to get to the bookstore for our group. I have been working on a story. I don’t know the people in this group well, so I finally decide that no one would think it anything but steamy romance, but I’m nervous, so I plan to share just a few pages. I made sure to write in third person and give the protagonist a different and unusual name, keeping as much distance from the truth as I can, in a sense, but I ache to tell someone without telling someone.

I’m not overdressed this time. I’m in skinny jeans, a T-shirt and a Saints ball cap that I have to steal back from Ben’s room because he likes to wear it to school. I arrive a little late. As I walk through the lot, I see what I think is Luke’s truck. I slow down and peer over as I pass. I leap back, holding my chest when I see he’s sitting behind the wheel, looking down at his phone.

“Luke?”

He rolls down the window.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. I am immediately aware of how I look—thrown together.

“You never came to see me,” he says, leaning over and pushing open the passenger door.

“It’s not safe. Are you kidding?”

“It’s dark. No one’s around. I’ll say I’m hiring you for some local book promotion stuff.” He indicates a stack of books in the back that could serve as an excuse if we’re caught. I look around, paranoid, making sure there is no one in sight, then slide in and shut the door quickly.

“Hi,” I smile, immediately shy and self-conscious in his presence.

“Hi.” He moves in to kiss me, but I back away.

“Someone could see.”

“Okay, you’re right. But they won’t see this.”

He unbuttons my jeans and moves his hand inside them. I inhale sharply, not expecting his touch. He puts his fingers inside me and we look at one another. I grip the door latch, but force myself not to look suspicious in case anyone were to pass.

“I missed you,” he says.

I take off my ball cap and cover his hand, glancing around again outside the window, but then letting myself be overtaken by the pleasure.

“Me too.” I’m finding it hard to speak. I stifle a moan. “I thought you’d have gone to Italy by now.”

“You make it hard to leave, you know that? Maybe I would be if I hadn’t met you.”

I keep asking myself, why me? What’s so special about me that this perfect man wants me? I don’t understand.

“Mel?” a voice calls. Luke and I both start. He pulls back to his side and I straighten my shirt over my open zipper.

“Jesus!”

I see it’s Lacy.

“Lacy. Hi. I—” I open the truck door and step out. She must have walked right out of the front door without us knowing. How could I be so careless?

“This is Luke. He’s a writer. We’re here for a writing event...thing. Well, not him, I mean just me. He already wrote a book.” I grab one of the books from the stack in the backseat to emphasize my point. “He was just giving me one.” She peers in at Luke and waves.

“Hi, there,” he says, and waves back.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was inside looking for you. I thought we were meeting here. I’d given up and was gonna head out.”

“Oh my gosh, no, I thought that was happy hour tomorrow.”

“Did I get it wrong?” She pulls out her phone, and mumbles as she reads my message back. “‘I have a group at Classics Bookstore Thursday at six. The Local has a good patio happy hour on Friday, starts around five.’ Ohhh gosh. I thought you were inviting me to the Classics group thingy. And I just said ‘C U then.’ I was in a rush. My fault.”

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