Page 8 of Such a Good Wife

“Thank you. You didn’t have to...” I start to say. He stops me.

“I’m here the next couple Thursdays, giving readings. Maybe I’ll run into you again.”

“Oh, for the summer romance series thing. You’re the big surprise author. I see.”

“Surprise!” he jokes, making jazz hands, and I laugh. “Your name? Sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”

“Mel. Melanie.” I hold my hand out to shake, or rather, sort of charge at him with it. I’m sure it’s more awkward than charming.

“Beautiful name. Nice to meet you, Mel.”

I blush and stand to leave just as a leftover fan taps him on the shoulder.

I walk out, or maybe I float out, through the rows of stacked books and past the rows of elderberry bushes in front of the building to my car.

I hear a voice behind me and turn. Luke stands there in the glow of a streetlamp, and he’s holding my credit card.

“You left this,” he says, smiling. I never picked it back up off the counter I guess.

“Oh gosh. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Hale.” I look down at my card, my full name in raised letters across it. I smile back at him. He reaches his hand toward my face, gently, and I have no idea why, but instead of backing away, I close my eyes. Then, he plucks my dangly earring from where it must have fallen out of my ear and is twisted in my hair. When I realize that all he is doing is saving my earring, I feel a flush of embarrassment for thinking he was going to do something else. Kiss me? That would be absurd. But then he lingers a few moments and looks me in the eye. I think he might kiss me then, so I pull away, abruptly.

“Thank you. Thanks. I...appreciate it.” I get into my car and he waves as I drive away.

I look at my shaky hands on the steering wheel and notice I don’t have my wedding ring on. That whole time, he never saw a ring. Not that Luke Ellison was flirting with me. I am 100 percent positive that the stress has made me delusional, and he was just being friendly the way he would with anyone he found sitting, reading his book. He wasn’t making a pass. No.

I look at my naked ring finger. I didn’t leave it off intentionally. I was making turkey meatballs with Ben, and I was wrist-deep in raw meat. Last time we made them, bits got stuck in the grooves of my ring, and it took me half a day to figure out why a tinny, bloody smell was following me around. It’s sitting in the windowsill above the sink right now. But it doesn’t matter. He wasn’t coming on to me. I didn’t do anything wrong. Except that I was going to let him.

I drive home thinking of Luke Ellison with his typewriter (I don’t know why he would use a typewriter, of course that’s stupid, but I still imagine him with it), and a cigar hanging from his lips. He sits in a rented room above a bar in the French Quarter and writes to the sound of jazz music and bits of chatter from the crowded streets beneath him. What that life must be like.

Before I go inside, I hide his book in my purse. I stuff it down deep and pile a couple things on top of it—my wallet and sunglasses. Collin would never know any author I’m reading from another. He wouldn’t care. But I still do it. I hide it as I walk into the house. I’m not really certain why.

***

4

I FEEL LIKE THEY’RE looking at me, like they know something. I find a place away from where most of the moms sit and I spread a blanket out on the matted grass behind right field, laying out snacks. Ben forgot his cleats. He gives me a wave from the dugout to tell me he’s borrowing a pair. He points to his feet, smiling. He loves baseball practice. Maybe only because he gets to use allowance money to stop at Dairy Queen on the way home for a frosted fudge Blizzard. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful he’s found an activity I don’t have to drag him to, howling. All the other kids are special needs too, so there are a lot of social rules put in place by the coaches that are much better for Ben than the free-for-all that basketball was.

I see Marcy Tritto and Carrie Rivard sitting in camping chairs on the other side of the dugout. Marcy waves. Her son, Trevor, has Down’s and always tries to hug Ben, which doesn’t go over well. Carrie fans herself with a coloring book and tries to look interested in the kids as they find their spots on the field. She gives a little clap and thumbs-up to her kid. I can never remember his name, but he bites.

I feel a prickle of heat climb my spine. Of course they don’t know anything. It’s strange how intensely it feels as though they are looking at me differently. I’m the one who set my chair away from them, but they didn’t wave me over either. I’m being ridiculous. Everything is okay. When did I turn into such a prude, nothing happened. But what if someone I know had driven past in that moment—when my lips were inches from Luke Ellison’s?

I wait a little while until everyone seems to settle in and I can be sure that no one is going to sit near me. Then I pull out his book and hold it in my hands. His book. He wrote it. It’s a juicy romance, and on the cover there is an image of two lovers on a beach at sunset. I’d usually scoff at this sort of drivel, but it’s different when you know the person who wrote it. It’s so...impressive. I have the cover masked with a different book jacket—a respectable Jonathan Franzen cover. He’s too smart for most people to get, so I feel safe that no one in this crowd will ask about it because they won’t know what it is.

I turn each delicious page with shaky fingers, stopping after every paragraph or two to peer over the book and make sure no one’s hanging out behind me. Linda Singer likes to creep over with her purse-wine and try to hand it out to all the moms. She could be lurking along the fence, trying to be subtle. I feel totally paranoid. It’s hard to look away from these filthy pages. Each one lustier than the last—inner thigh caresses and nipple sucking.

I hear Ben in the distance, so I hold my hand over my eyes and squint against the sun to see him. Oh no. A kid pushed him and now he’s crying. Shit. Practice is from five to seven and it’s barely five twenty. I have been looking forward to these two hours of reading time all day. Sometimes, if Coach Joe can get everyone to quiet down, the crisis will pass. Nope. Not this time. Ben’s lying next to third base, kicking his heels into the orange clay; he’s got Gavin McCullen and the biter kid crying now too, all feeding off of one another’s howls. That’s it. Joe looks my way, and I nod, stuffing my portable chair into its vinyl carrying case and crossing to third base.

I kneel and go through my steps to calm him. A soft voice and praise.

“You’re doing a great job, bud,” I say, lightly touching his shoulder. I hand him his Dumbledore action figure. He takes it and twists its head, but it’s not going to be enough today. I tell him that we can go if he wants and he charges across the field, a small, marching silhouette, headed toward the car. I see him sit on the curb and make Dumbledore walk across the bumper while Joe talks to me.

“Maybe he’ll want to come back after a little time,” Joe says, but I know my son, and I can tell when there will be a quick recovery and when he’s done. His eyes change when he’s about to vehemently refuse to do something. Forcing him is not how to handle it. Joe blows his whistle abruptly, causing me to yelp.

“No spitting, Jason!” His attention is across the field, pointing at, presumably, Jason, who shrugs and looks around to pass the blame.

“Sorry,” Joe says. He’s realized he’s blown my eardrums out with his aggressive whistling.

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