Page 3 of The Better Sister

I was relieved when Colby seemed satisfied with the answer and went on to ask Adam what it was like to be a successful man married to an even more successful woman. I found myself envying—and resenting—the complete absence of discomfort or apology in her question. She wasn’t in the habit (yet, at least) of protecting a man’s ego.

As Adam spoke, I enjoyed playing a role I rarely got to occupy. I beamed as he told Colby how proud he had been of my every achievement: starting out as an assistant and then making it as a writer forCity Woman, editor in chief at that little downtown-focused rag, my first essay in theNew Yorker, my photo shoot three years before forCosmo’s “40 Under 40” feature.

I grew up with parents who didn’t even notice when I earned a blue ribbon in... anything. It was so like Adam to have a running list of my achievements at his fingertips. How many times had I been told how lucky I was to have a husband who was so unabashedly proud of his wife? As if there was something unnatural about it.

We held hands as we made the short walk back to our apartment on Twelfth Street. “Thank you so much for doing that, Adam. If Colby has a boyfriend, I have a feeling he’s going to be a little confused about why she seems so disappointed in him tonight. You were absolutely charming.”

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and winked.

At home, I automatically found myself rewarding him for supporting me, pouring a shot of sambuca from the bar cart in the living room.

He downed the drink in one gulp and grabbed my hands as I was wrapping them around his waist. “Were you happy with the interview?” He entwined his fingers in mine before placing my hands at the base of his neck and looking into my eyes. Then he was kissing that spot beneath my right ear, his go-to move when he had other plans for us. “I swear, that interviewer looked at you like you were Gandhi.”

Adam and I hadn’t been intimate in weeks. We’d both been so busy. All I wanted was to crawl into bed with a novel. “Did you really just say Gandhi to try to get me hot?”

He stopped. “What’s wrong?” he asked. Note to self: the least sexy phrase in the English language is “What’s wrong?”

Back when I was still writing articles aimed at the sexed-up-wife crowd, I actually said that the key to saving your marriage was to fool around at least two times a week. “It’s a lot easier to put up with each other’s shit when you’re putting your parts together.” The advice wasn’t exactly progressive, but at core, there was some truth in it. I closed my eyes and tried to match his earlier mood.

“Nothing’s wrong. Sorry, I was just joking.” When he started to kiss me again, I whispered “Please, don’t stop.” Did you know that in survey after survey conducted by women’s magazines, those three words were the ones that men most wanted to hear in bed?Please. Don’t. Stop.

I felt my breath quicken as his mouth paused at my clavicle and began moving toward the belly that I could have described as “a six-pack” just a few years earlier. I stepped out of my slingbacks, and, just like that, I was eager to finish what he had started.

As they say, fake it until you make it.

When we were finished—both of us—I tucked myself into the crook of Adam’s arm, the way we always used to sleep for the entire night before we bought the king bed. “That was amazing. Again, thank you so much for doing that stupid interview.”

“Why would you call it stupid?”

“You know. Just cheesy. I’m not used to being the center of attention that way.”

He looked at me for a full five seconds, studying my face. “But it’s what you’ve always dreamed of, isn’t it? And now you have it.”

The words themselves were unobjectionable, even congratulatory. But for some reason, they stung. I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid, feeling guilty about dragging him into that interview, where it was all me-me-me.

When he rotated 180 degrees and turned his back to me, my fears were momentarily confirmed. Then he reached for my top arm and draped it around him, pulling me into a spoon position. He kissed my hands and let out a satisfied sigh. Our cat, Panda, suddenly appeared from nowhere—the only way he knows how to make an appearance.

“Greedy Guy?” Adam’s eyes were closed, but he had felt the nineteen-pound fur ball pounce on the mattress. When we first got married, we let six-year-old Ethan name our new kitten. He opted for Greedy Panda for reasons we still didn’t understand, and ten years later, the name had taken on various iterations.

“Hmm-hmm.” I smiled as Panda snuggled into the small of my back. I felt happy and relaxed.

When I heard the front door of the apartment open, I wasn’t sure if I’d fallen asleep or if I’d only been resting my eyes. I glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even ten. Ethan had made curfew with a full hour to spare.

“I should make sure he ate,” I said.

“He’s sixteen years old. He’s probably had three dinners by now. You deserve to sleep. You have a big day tomorrow.”

We both knew I’d be tossing and turning all night. I always felt confident with the written word, but I would need to stand up before hundreds of people at the awards ceremony to deliver my speech. I’d been preparing for the last week.

“I still can’t believe all of this is happening,” I whispered.

He pulled me closer, placing his top hand on my bare hip. It felt good.

“Hey, about that, I didn’t have a chance to tell you earlier. Something came up with work, and I may be late tomorrow night.”

I was glad he couldn’t see my face. The news, delivered so casually, felt like a slap. I kept my voice level, not wanting to give him the expected reaction.

“Well, what is it? Maybe I can talk to Bill.” The head partner at Adam’s firm wasEve’s lawyer and also a close friend.

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