Page 5 of The Marriage Game

Still needs work, but that’s at least a little better. Everybody wants to be young again. Wait, I’ve got it! High performance bladder. Yes, that’s actually really good. It basically insinuates that you have an athletic bladder. One that deserves to be outfitted by Nike, not Depends and hydrated by Gatorade, rather than by nothing at all.

Oh, and leaking, yeah, I’d call that your bladder reaching its irrigation potential. Potential is a good word. Makes it sound like you’ve achieved something rather than reached a new low in life.

We can’t forget low sex drive, another zinger nobody wants to see in writing, but that nonetheless seems to be plastered all over the literature there. No, much better to rephrase this as: having reached the point in life where you have less interest in giving and receiving special hugs.

If the COVID pandemic taught us anything it’s that it’s totally acceptable to not like hugs.

Wow. My brain has officially gone to some weird places. Luckily, my policeman friend seems to have gotten all of the information he needs from me, because he flips his notebook shut and gives me a nod.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “Just so you know it might still be a while before the tow truck gets here.” He hesitates for a second before adding, “But there’s a gas station right up there if you need to, you know, grab a snack or,” he clears his throat, “use the bathroom or something.” He offers me what I think is meant to be a conciliatory smile. “I know my mom always likes to know where the nearest bathroom is.”

Chapter 3

Jill

WhenIfinallygethome from the accident debacle it’s to a silent house. This is not wholly unexpected since both Liam and Ellie have extracurricular activities after school today. Sorry, Elle. Not Ellie. Now that she’s 14 she’s decided that name fits her better.

Clearly I’m still adjusting to the change. Along with all of the other changes that being a teenager seems to have produced in her: namely a tendency to be very moody and to oscillate between finding me embarrassing and finding me extremely embarrassing.

Regardless, it’s not the kids’ whereabouts I’m wondering about. It’s my husband’s. According to our shared Google calendar he’s supposed to be home right now. I called him from the accident scene a few times and he didn’t answer. Which is fine, I remind myself forcefully.

Sure we’re supposed to have a rule about always picking up the other person’s phone call, but, you know, the impracticality of holding each other to that has really gone up in recent years.After all, Max is a state senator. He has a very important job and goes to lots of very important meetings and sees lots of other important people.

As for me, well…I may not be his campaign manager anymore but I still do important things too.

I work for a public relations agency part time and those down-on-their-luck individuals and companies that come our way are counting on me to make them look shiny and new again. Why just last week I helped the CEO of a fitness chain bounce back from allegations that he used weight loss drugs to stay trim rather than using his own facilities.

Important stuff.

Anyway, there’s also all of the things I do to keep our household running— like the laundry and cooking and chauffeuring our children from place to place. I can’t let the chicken burn just because Max is calling.

I sigh as I set my purse down, weariness settling over me like a weighted blanket. It’s been a long week. A long couple of years really. But it’s fine because there are only a few months to go and then Max is officially done being a senator. His fourth two-year term will be up and then he can’t run again. He will have reached his term limits.

I can’t wait.

I look again at our Google calendar, wondering if Max forgot that today is Friday: our standing date night for the last 17 years. Or at least it used to be. Recently we’ve been skipping it over a lot. Not tonight, though, I decide. I may be tired, but Max and I are long overdue for a night out. I’m going to go get all dolled up, and once he sees me he’ll have no choice but to sweep me away to some fantastic restaurant. At least that’s one nice thing about him being a senator—he can usually get a table anywhere.

I hurry up the stairs, texting my mom as I go and asking if she can pick Liam up from cross country practice. Elle is goinghome with a friend from volleyball, so she’s all set. My mom’s affirmative response comes quickly.

Having a plan in place for the night brightens my mood, and I’m humming as I slide out of my day clothes and into the turquoise dress I wore to the charity banquet my sister Hannah and her husband Luke organized to raise money for more scholarship students at the school where Hannah teaches. That was back in September, so it’s been long enough that I can wear it again without risk of an acquaintance calling me out for it.

Probably.

I brush out my hair and apply some fancier evening makeup, then take a step back to examine myself in the full-length mirror that hangs in our bathroom. Perfect.

Well, maybe not perfect. I’m 40 now, so not everything is as it should be. I could definitely do without the crow’s feet and the lines etched across my forehead like it’s wet sand someone decided to drag a stick across.

But all in all I’d say I look pretty good. I think Max will appreciate the effort. Feeling flirty I grab my phone and send him a text.

Jill

Hey, babe, I can’t wait to see you tonight (kissy face emoji, lady dancing emoji).

I hit send then watch my screen eagerly for a couple of minutes, but there’s no response.

It’s a bit irksome, really, his silence. I mean, I’ve called and texted multiple times. Multiple times. A new thought hits me: what if he’s lying dead in a ditch somewhere and that’s why he’s not answering?

Geez, I’m starting to sound like Hannah with her out-of-control imagination. Max is not dead in a ditch. His phone is probably on silent or something.

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