Page 27 of Such a Good Wife

“Are you okay?” she asks. I’m not hiding my horror well.

“Yes, I just, I don’t feel very well.” I know I’m sweating. I can feel it beading on my forehead.

“Ya don’t look so good.”

“I think it’s probably just...something I ate earlier.”

“Did you get sushi from the gas station? It’ll get you every time.” She gives a sympathetic shake of her head, and I stand, feeling my gut betray me, and run to the bathroom. After I throw up in the toilet, I stand in the stall and try to compose myself. I squirt hand sanitizer into my palm and rub it into my hands, then pour a couple of Tic Tacs into my mouth. The jolt of mint is curbing the nausea. I have no right to be this upset. He is not mine to lose.

I take a few deep breaths and return to the table. I don’t sit.

“I’m sorry, I need to go home.”

“You poor thing. Is there anything I can do?”

“Thanks, no. I just need to rest. Here.” I place some money on the table that will cover all our drinks and some change. She stands up as I gather my things, with the look people give when they are powerless to help. “Let’s do this again,” I add, already headed toward the door.

“Yeah, okay. Feel better!”

I have three hours until I’m expected home, and I know I shouldn’t, but I drive directly to Luke Ellison’s house.

I park a few blocks away and walk the stretch of land to his door, hugging the tree line so as not to be seen. Just the way he’d suggested I do anytime I felt like showing up. He said he’d be waiting. I’m seething with anger, thinking about what I would have found if I did stop by, unannounced. What an absolute fraud. He thinks he’s some ladies’ man–romance writer who can just come to town and seduce all the women, telling them grand stories, telling them he’s never felt this way about anyone before.

I should only be angry with myself for thinking that this was something rare and special, a once-in-a-lifetime bond that we shared. That even when it ended we would have experienced something that I could take away and carry with me—that was just mine—that had nothing to do with caretaking or stay-at-home motherhood or suburbia or anything. It would be this delicious secret that only I knew, and it would keep me going. Because I had proof, in this brief summer of knowing him, that if I said “Yes, I’ll come to Italy,” I could still take that path I didn’t take. This whole other life was still within reach. Even though I wouldn’t go, I was shown that I could. But now he’s ruined that. I’ve been had. None of it is special.

His truck is in the dirt drive and the kitchen light is on when I walk up. I knock on the side door and wait in the darkness. When he sees me, his face lights up, then drops after a moment when he can tell I’m upset. He tries to take my hand, but I pull it away and cross my arms. I stand just inside the door, so I don’t risk being seen, even though it’s too secluded for that to be a concern out here.

“Hi. I’m thrilled to see you, but you don’t look happy.”

“Is Lacy planning on coming over tonight?” I ask, sharply, and he looks at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. Then he closes his eyes a moment, probably figuring out how to best lie and get out of this.

“No, not tonight,” he says, and I’m surprised he’s so forthcoming. “Will you come in, please.” He gestures to the kitchen. My eyes rest on the spot on the counter where we had sex last time I was here.

“I think that’s all I really needed to know, so I’ll just go.”

“Please, Mel. Please come in. Just for a minute at least. Don’t leave it like this.”

I follow him to the kitchen table, reluctantly, where his open laptop and a glass of wine sit. He offers me a glass, but I say no, then we sit at the table under the dim overhead light.

“What is there to say?” I ask.

“I’m leaving in ten days. I don’t want this to end with you angry.”

“Does she know you’re leaving?”

“I don’t know. It hasn’t come up.”

“Really? ’Cause she thinks you’re in love—said it was love at first sight.”

“What? We hung out a few times, that’s it.”

“Is that what you call it, hanging out?” I snap, embarrassed at how much I am now realizing I had invested in this.

“Wait. So, you’re angry. With me?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“You’re good. You acted like this meant the world to you. You invited me to Italy, for fuck’s sake. You—”

“And I meant all that. And then you disappeared. When you stop going to your own writing group to avoid me, shouldn’t I take a hint? I got the courage up to try a few times—see if you felt the same, but you never came by, never reciprocated my interest. What was I supposed to think?”

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