Page 18 of His Loving Wife

“Fine. Why?”

“If this dinner with Aster—”

“I already told you. It’s not a problem.”

And the way he says it this time, I actually believe him. My thoughts from earlier, that he’d logged online to vent with his friends, are all but confirmed, but at least they’ve made him feel better.

There aren’t many people along our stretch of beach, another advantage to renting a house. We’re used to staying with the resort crowd, waking up early to stake out our square of sand for the day. Here, we’re able to take the vacation at our own pace.

I’m trying to soak up as much of the glorious weather before Aster arrives. I flip through a few pages of my magazine, but the sun is at full attention, making it hard to read anything without squinting. I toss my magazine and look out at the ocean.

Andrew and Noah have wandered onto the dock. Tomorrow is supposed to be the big fishing expedition on the rental boat—yet another reason for me to feel uneasy—and they’re preparing by practicing casting techniques. Willow has wandered down the beach. Her phone is propped up in the sand, and she’s videoing herself run through a dance routine.

Alone in my chair, I laugh. Don’t teenagers ever think of how ridiculous they look? Of course, each generation has their own trends and fads. When I was younger, nineties pop and chunky sweaters with high-waisted jeans were all the rage. Thankfully, documenting every moment of the day wasn’t yet a thing, so there’s very little proof of it. I wonder, sometimes, if Willow will grow up regretting the amounts of selfies and TikToks and tweets she’s shared with the world, or will it be a normal part of GenZ culture? Maybe everyone will have their own unique time capsule encrypted on hard drives.

Sometimes I can’t ignore how much Willow is turning into the person I once was. She’s rebellious, always pushing the limits. She even has a flair for the creative, like me. I’ve found half-written poems and short stories in her room, although she wouldn’t dare say she wants to be a writer. Right now, wanting to follow in my footsteps at all is a buzzkill, but then again, she’s the product of a wannabe novelist, not a real one.

This certainly isn’t the life I predicted for myself. Mother of two. Community college professor. No, when I was Willow’s age, I envisioned a life where I’d be traveling the world. Maybe working for a travel magazine, writing opinion pieces about the best places to eat tapas and go skinny-dipping. Eventually, I’d funnel all those experiences into writing the next great American novel. That was the dream, anyway.

It’s not that I’m unhappy with where I’ve ended up. I may not be writing my own articles and books, but my vocation still has plenty of room for creative outlets. I’m able to explore various genres with my students—romance, fantasy, crime. I’ve even seen some former students make it in the industry. Just last year, one of them published his first book in a new crime series about a former mafioso entering the police academy. I spent hours helping him put together his book proposal. It’s a good feeling knowing I’ve contributed to someone else’s dreams coming true, even if I’ve not quite fulfilled mine.

At least I have my family. I certainly can’t imagine a life without Willow and Noah, and the events of last August made that abundantly clear. If I lost them… my mind won’t even go there. Still, I sometimes think of that other life, the one I would have chosen for myself had my real life not gotten in the way.

There’s shrieking from the dock. Noah is standing with both his hands out in front of his body. Andrew is behind him, helping him guide the line from the water to the shore. A gray fish the size of my forearm flounces out of the water before sinking back in. Together, Andrew and Noah hoist the fish out of the sea, until it’s flopping on the dock.

Noah, his cheeks pink with excitement, suddenly looks frightened; he’s never caught a fish this big before, and it’s clear he doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Hold it steady,” Andrew says, turning around to rummage through his tackle box.

I’m closer to the dock now, feeling the instinctive need to help my son, even though I know little about fishing. But I know when he needs backup, and his wide eyes tell me he’s afraid of messing this up.

“That’s a big one,” I say, watching as the fish fights with noticeably less abandon.

“Thanks,” he says, smiling. He’s back to feeling proud, as he holds one hand on the fish’s slimy belly, begging it to keep still. “I thought we were going to lose it.”

“Good thing you had your dad here to help.” Over my shoulder, I can still hear Andrew searching for something.

“Maybe we can get a picture—”

Noah’s words are cut off by the chop of a knife cutting into the thick flesh of the fish, the blade slicing right through the head, so that the tip thuds against the dock. Noah pulls back his hand, his gaze fixated on the motionless fish.

My mouth agape, I look from the fish to Andrew. He’s standing beside us, holding the knife.

“Andrew!” I shout. “What the hell are you doing?”

The smile leaves his face at a slug’s pace. “We’re fishing. Surely you don’t expect us to throw it back in. This can be our dinner.”

My heart is pinging in my chest. I’m not sure why, but the suddenness of the moment has left me unnerved. Noah looks shaken, too.

I motion toward our son. “Noah’s hand was right there.”

“I told him to hold still. I had to do something before it flopped back in the water.” He wraps an arm around Noah. “You’re okay, aren’t you, bud?”

He nods and smiles, but shakily, like a deer learning to walk on wobbly legs. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Proud of you,” Andrew says, raking his hand through Noah’s hair. “Now help me clean up this mess. It won’t be long before Aunt Aster arrives.”

Noah and Andrew tend to their decapitated catch. I watch as the blood runs down the dock, dripping into the sea.

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