Page 28 of You Will Never Be Me

My phone buzzes then. Another text message.

Why are you ignoring me?? WE NEED TO TALK.

I turn it to Silent and work on keeping the smile on my face.

“And Ben is sooo sweet,” Liv says, stroking the petals of the fresh vase of peonies in the middle of the kitchen counter. “I can’t believe he still gets you flowers for no reason.”

My smile wavers as the sadness weighs down on it, threatening to break it. Because of course the flowers aren’t from Ben. I have a subscription at a local florist to have new bouquets delivered to my doorstep once a week. But when Liv first walked into the house, she’d assumed they were from Ben, and I didn’t have the heart to correct her. And now it’s become A Thing. Argh, why didn’t I just correct her from the very beginning? There is noshame in getting myself flowers. Surely, it’s the feminist thing to do. But it’s too late to set the record straight now.

“What’s the secret to having the perfect marriage?” Liv says, and she looks so earnest that I almost break down in tears then and there.

I’m this close to telling her that I don’t have the perfect marriage. I have whatever’s the exact opposite of a perfect marriage. The answer is in my mouth, aching to spill out, but then I hear Sabine’s delighted squeal, and I glance over at her in the playpen, and she’s so beautiful that it’s hard to believe she’s real. Ben and I made that, along with our robust twins. Despite the flaws in our marriage, we created something so unbelievably good.

I meet Liv’s eye and say, “I don’t think any of us has the perfect marriage. But if you want my advice, I think the most important thing in any relationship is to not keep score. I feel like a lot of couples have this pent-up resentment toward each other. They’re like, ‘Oh, I gave in about X, so you should give in about this thing now.’ ”

Liv says, “Oohhh,” her eyes wide, her eyebrows raised as she slowly nods. “I love that. You’re so right. I’m going to bring that up in our counseling session, because Adam and I definitely keep score, and it makes us like…almost hate each other.” She covers her mouth like she’s just let out a burp. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I just said that. Please don’t judge me.”

If I were to judge anyone, it would be myself. At least Liv has the courage to be real with me. “How long have you been in marriage counseling?”

“About two months now. It’s really helpful.”

I’m about to ask her more about it when one of the girls starts crying, so the chat is cut short, which is probably just as well. Butthe rest of the day, I can’t quite shake the thought of seeking marriage counseling with Ben. By the time he gets home from his open house, I’m ready. Liv is gone and the kids are perched in the living room, watching the Disney Channel. I bring him a glass of chardonnay as he takes his seat at the dining table.

“Oh, thanks,” he says, looking surprised by the wine, which kind of pierces at me. Have I really been such a horrible wife that my husband is taken aback when I offer him something as small as a drink?

“Sure. How was the open house?”

Ben shifts in his seat, breaking eye contact. My internal alarm goes off. I’m not the only person in this room who’s hiding something.

“It was fine,” he mutters, taking off the cling film that I’d put over his plate of food.

Definitely guilty of something. “Any promising offers?”

Ben gives a long-suffering sigh before glancing up at me. “I’ve had a long day. I’d rather not do this right now.”

Do what?The question’s on the tip of my tongue, but somehow, I manage to swallow it down like a bitter pill. I nod to nobody in particular. Ben isn’t even looking at me anymore to see me nodding; he’s hyper-focused on stabbing into his roast chicken.Well, I chirp brightly (and silently) to myself,this is at least a good way to segue into what I wanted to discuss.

“Um, so I was chatting with Liv today—”

A tiny, mirthless snort from Ben. “Your new best friend,” he mutters.

I’m not sure why that feels like such a dig, but I choose to ignore it for now. “And she mentioned that she and Adam—her husband—are in marriage counseling, and that it’s really helpful.”

Ben stops chewing. His eyes settle on me, and I almost shrink away at the burning malignity in them. How could anyone look at their spouse this way? He chases down the mouthful with a large gulp of wine. “Chicken’s dry,” he says finally, his gaze still searing a hole in my skin. “Again. Looks amazing though. I bet your followers love it.”

Your followersis said with as much disgust as one might say the words “sex offender.”

Again, I swallow the retort clawing its way up my throat. “I was thinking maybe we could see a marriage counselor as well.”

“Why? Don’t we have ‘the perfect marriage’?” It comes out absolutely dripping with sarcasm.

My voice cracks. I can barely hold the tears back when I say, “Ben, please. I’m trying to make this work.”

He softens then, at the sight of my raw desperation. Another sigh, though this time, it’s one of defeat. As though by pleading with him to see a counselor, I’ve attacked him. “Fine.” He says it to the chicken breast and not to me, but I have to be grateful for what little scraps he gives me.

“Thank you,” I whisper. Then, because I find myself ridiculously overwhelmed with gratitude for his acquiescence, I reach out and squeeze his hand.

I pretend not to feel his hand twitch and stiffen, as though mine were a scorpion crawling onto his skin.

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