Imagine that your husband has two other wives.

You’ve never met the other wives. None of you know each other, and because of this unconventional arrangement, you can see your husband only one day a week. But you love him so much you don’t care. Or at least that’s what you’ve told yourself.

But one day, while you’re doing laundry, you find a scrap of paper in his pocket—an appointment reminder for a woman named Hannah, and you just know it’s another of the wives.

You thought you were fine with your arrangement, but you can’t help yourself: you track her down, and, under false pretenses, you strike up a friendship. Hannah has no idea who you really are. Then Hannah starts showing up to your coffee dates with telltale bruises, and you realize she’s being abused by her husband. Who, of course, is also your husband. But you’ve never known him to be violent, ever.

Who exactly is your husband, and how far would you go to find the truth? Would you risk your own life?

And who is his mysterious third wife?

TARRYN FISHER is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of nine novels. Born a sun hater, she currently makes her home in Seattle, Washington, with her children, husband and psychotic husky. She loves connecting with her readers on Instagram.

The Wives

Tarryn Fisher

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Tarryn Fisher 2019

Tarryn Fisher asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © December 2019 ISBN: 9781474096997

Note to Readers

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“I couldn’t put it down... Nail-biting, heart-clenchingly good from the start, with characters that you both root and cringe for. I loved every word.”

—New York Times bestselling author Alessandra Torre

“You’ll have whiplash until the very end. The Wives will leave the most sure-footed reader uneasy until the last word is read.”

—New York Times bestselling author Colleen Hoover

For Colleen

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Praise

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Reader’s Guide

Discussion Questions

A Q&A with Tarryn Fisher

About the Publisher

ONE

He comes over on Thursday every week. That’s my day, I’m Thursday. It’s a hopeful day, lost in the middle of the more important days; not the beginning or the end, but a stop. An appetizer to the weekend. Sometimes I wonder about the other days and if they wonder about me. That’s how women are, right? Always wondering about each other—curiosity and spite curdling together in little emotional puddles. Little good that does; if you wonder too hard, you’ll get everything wrong.

I set the table for two. I’m a little buzzed as I lay out the silverware, pausing to consider the etiquette of what goes where. I run my tongue along my teeth and shake my head. I’m being silly; it’s just me and Seth tonight—an at-home date. Not that there’s anything else—we don’t do regular dates very often at the risk of being seen. Imagine that...not wanting to be seen with your husband. Or your husband not wanting to be seen with you. The vodka I sipped earlier has warmed me, made my limbs loose and careless. I almost knock over the vase of flowers as I place a fork next to a plate: a bouquet of the palest pink roses. I chose them for their sexual innuendo because when you’re in a position like mine, being on top of your sexual game is of the utmost importance. Look at these delicate, pink petals. Do they make you think of my clit? Good!

To the right of the vaginal flowers sit two white candles in silver candlestick holders. My mother once told me that under the flickering light of a candle flame, a woman can almost look ten years younger. My mother cared about those things. Every six weeks a doctor slid a needle into her forehead, pumping thirty cc’s of Botox into her dermis. She had a subscription to every glossy fashion magazine you could name and collected books on how to keep your husband. No one tries that hard to keep their husband unless they’ve already lost him. I used to think her shallow, back when my ideals were untainted by reality. I had big plans to be anything but my mother: to be loved, to be successful, to make beautiful children. But the truth is that the heart’s desire is a mere current against the tide of nurture and nature. You can spend your whole life swimming against it and eventually you’ll get tired and the current of genes and upbringing will pull you under. I became a lot like her and a little bit like me.

I roll the wheel of the lighter with my thumb and hold the flame above the wick. The lighter is a Zippo, the worn remnants of a Union Jack flag on the casing. The flickering tongue reminds me of my brief stint with smoking. To look cool, mostly—I never inhaled, but I lived to see that glowing cherry at my fingertips. My parents bought the candleholders for me as a housewarming gift after I saw them in a Tiffany’s catalog. I found them to be predictably classy. When you’re newly married, you see a pair of candlestick holders and imagine a lifetime of roast dinners that will go along with them. Dinners much like the one we’re having tonight. My life is almost perfect.

I glance out the bay window as I fold the napkins, the view of the park spread out beneath me. It’s gray outside, typical of Seattle. The view of the park is why I chose this particular unit instead of the much larger, nicer unit overlooking Elliott Bay. While most people would have chosen the view of the water, I prefer a view of people’s lives. A silver-haired couple sits on a bench, staring out at the pathway where cyclists and joggers pass every few minutes. They’re not touching, though their heads move in unison whenever someone goes by. I wonder if that will be Seth and me one day, and then my cheeks warm as I think of the others. Imagining what the future holds proves difficult when factoring in two other women who share your husband.

I set out the bottle of pinot grigio that I chose from the market earlier today. The label is boring, not something that catches the eye, but the austere-looking man who sold it to me had described its taste in great detail, rubbing his fingers together as he spoke. I can’t recall what he’d said, even though it was only a few hours ago. I’d been distracted, focused on the task of collecting ingredients. Cooking, my mother taught me, is the only good way to be a wife.

Standing back, I examine my work. Overall, it’s an impressive table, but I am queen of presentation, after all. Everything is just right, the way he likes it, and thus, the way I like it. It’s not that I don’t have a personality; it’s just that everything I am is reserved for him. As it should be.

At six o’clock sharp, I hear the key turn in the lock and then the whistle of the door opening. I hear the click as it closes, and his keys hitting the table in the entryway. Seth is never late, and when you live a life as complicated as his, order is important. I smooth down the hair I so painstakingly curled and step from the kitchen into the hallway to greet him. He’s looking down at the mail in his hand, raindrops clinging to the tips of his hair.

“You got the mail! Thank you.” I’m embarrassed by the enthusiasm in my voice. It’s just the mail, for God’s sake.

He sets the pile down on the little marble table in the entryway, next to his keys, and smiles. There is a tilt in my belly, heat and a flurry of excitement. I step into the breadth of him, inhaling his scent, and burying my face in his neck. It’s a nice neck, tan and wide. It holds up a very good head of hair and a face that is traditionally handsome with the tiniest bit of roguish scruff. I nestle into him. Five days is a long time to go without the man you love. In my youth, I considered love a burden. How could you get anything done when you had to consider someone else every second of the day? When I met Seth, that all went out the window. I became my mother: doting, yielding, spread-eagle emotionally and sexually. It both thrilled and revolted me.

“I missed you,” I tell him.

I kiss the underside of his chin, then the tender spot beneath his ear, and then stand on my tiptoes to reach his mouth. I am thirsty for his attention and my kiss is aggressive and deep. He moans from the back of his throat, and his briefcase drops to the floor with a thud. He wraps his arms around me.

“That was a nice hello,” he says. Two of his fingers play the knobs of my spine like a saxophone. He massages them gently until I squirm closer.

“I’d give you a better one, but dinner is ready.”

His eyes become smoky, and I silently thrill. I turned him on in under two minutes. I want to say, Beat that, but to whom? Something uncoils in my stomach, a ribbon unrolling, unrolling. I try to catch it before it goes too far. Why do I always have to think of them? The key to making this work is not thinking of them.

“What did you make?” He unravels the scarf from his neck and loops it around mine, pulling me close and kissing me once more. His voice is warm against my cold trance, and I push my feelings aside, determined not to ruin our night together.

“Smells good.”

I smile and sashay into the dining room—a little hip to go with his dinner. I pause in the doorway to note his reaction to the table.

“You make everything beautiful.” He reaches for me, his strong, tanned hands tracked with veins, but I dance away, teasing. Behind him, the window is rinsed with rain. I glance over his shoulder—the couple on the bench are gone. What did they go home to? Chinese takeout...canned soup...?

I move on to the kitchen, making sure Seth’s eyes are on me. Experience has taught me that you can drag a man’s eyes if you move the right way.

“A rack of lamb,” I call over my shoulder. “Couscous...”

He plucks the bottle of wine from the table, holding it by the neck and tilting it down to study the label. “This is a good wine.” Seth is not supposed to drink wine; he doesn’t with the others. Religious reasons. He makes an exception for me and I chalk it up to another one of my small victories. I have lured him into deep red, merlots and crisp chardonnays. We’ve kissed, and laughed, and fucked drunk. Only with me; he hasn’t done that with them.

Silly, I know. I chose this life and it’s not about competing, it’s about providing, but one can’t help but keep a tally when other women are involved.

When I return from the kitchen with dinner clutched between two dishtowels, he has poured the wine and is staring out the window while he sips. Beneath the twelfth-floor window, the city hums her nightly rhythm. A busy street cuts a path in front of the park. To the right of the park and just out of view is the Sound, dotted with sailboats and ferries in the summer, and masked with fog in the winter. From our bedroom window, you can see it—a wide expanse of standing and falling water. The perfect Seattle view.

“I don’t care about dinner,” he says. “I want you now.” His voice is commanding; Seth leaves little room for questions. It’s a trait that has served him well in all areas of his life.

I set the platters on the table, my appetite for one thing gone and replaced by another. I watch as he blows out the candles, never taking his eyes from me, and then I walk to the bedroom, reaching around and unzipping my dress as I go. I do it slowly so he can watch, peeling off the layer of silk. I feel him behind me: the large presence, the warmth, the anticipation of what’s to come. My perfect dinner cools on the table, the fat of the lamb congealing around the edges of the serving dish in oranges and creams as I slip out of the dress and bend at the waist, letting my hands sink into the bed. I’m wrist-deep in the down comforter when his fingers graze my hips and hook in the elastic waist of my panties. He pulls them down, and when they flutter around my ankles, I kick free of them.

The tink of metal and then the zzzweeep of his belt. He doesn’t undress—there’s just the muted sound of his pants falling to his ankles.

After, I warm our dinner in the microwave, wrapped in my robe. There is a throbbing between my legs, a trickle of semen on my thigh; I am sore in the best possible way. I carry his plate to where he is lying shirtless on the couch, one arm thrown over his head—an image of exhaustion. I cannot remove the grin from my lips, though I try. It’s a break in my usual facade, this grinning like a schoolgirl.

“You’re beautiful,” he says when he sees me. His voice is gruff like it always is postsex. “You felt so good.” He reaches up to rub my thigh as he takes his plate. “Do you remember that vacation we talked about taking? Where do you want to go?” This is the essence of postcoital conversation with Seth: he likes to talk about the future after he comes.

Do I remember? Of course I remember. I rearrange my face so that it looks surprised.

He’s been promising a vacation for a year. Just the two of us.

My heart beats faster. I’ve been waiting for this. I didn’t want to push it since he’s been so busy, but here it is—my year. I’ve imagined all the places we can go. I’ve narrowed it down to a beach. White sands and lapis lazuli water, long walks along the water’s edge holding hands in public. In public.

“I was thinking somewhere warm,” I say. I don’t make eye contact—I don’t want him to see how eager I am to have him to myself. I am needy, and jealous, and petty. I let my robe fall open as I bend to set his wine on the coffee table. He reaches inside and cups my breast like I knew he would. He is predictable in some ways.

“Turks and Caicos?” he suggests. “Trinidad?”

Yes and yes!

Lowering myself into the armchair that faces the sofa, I cross my legs so that my robe slips open and reveals my thigh.

“You choose,” I say. “You’ve been more places than I have.” I know he likes that, to make the decisions. And what do I care where we go? So long as I get him for a week, uninterrupted, unshared. For that week, he will be only mine. A fantasy. Now comes the time I both dread and live for.

“Seth, tell me about your week.”

He sets his plate down and rubs the tips of his fingers together. They are glistening from the grease of the meat. I want to go over and put his fingers in my mouth, suck them clean.

“Monday is sick, the baby...”

“Oh, no,” I say. “She’s still in her first trimester, so it will be that way for a few more weeks.”

He nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “She’s very excited, despite the sickness. I bought her one of those baby name books. She highlights the names she likes and then we look through them when I see her.”

I feel a spike of jealousy and push it aside immediately. This is the highlight of my week, hearing about the others. I don’t want to ruin it with petty feelings.

“That’s so exciting,” I say. “Does she want a boy or a girl?”

He laughs as he walks over to the kitchen to set his plate in the sink. I hear the water running and then the lid of the trash can as he throws his paper towel away.

“She wants a boy. With dark hair, like mine. But I think whatever we have will have blond hair, like hers.”

I picture Monday in my mind—long, pin-straight blond hair, a surfer’s tan. She’s lean and muscular with perfect white teeth. She laughs a lot—mostly at the things he says—and is youthfully in love. He told me once that she is twenty-five but looks like a college girl. Normally, I’d judge a man for that, the cliché way men want younger women, but it isn’t true of him. Seth likes the connection.

“You’ll let me know as soon as you know what you’re having?”

“It’s a ways off, but yes.” He smiles, the corner of his mouth moving up. “We have a doctor’s appointment next week. I’ll have to head straight over on Monday morning.” He winks at me and I am not skilled enough to hide my flush. My legs are crossed and my foot bounces up and down as warmth fills my belly. He has the same effect on me now as he had on the first day we met.

“Can I make you a drink?” I ask, standing up.

I walk over to the bar and hit Play on the stereo. Of course he wants a drink, he always wants a drink on the evenings when we’re together. He told me that he secretly keeps a bottle of scotch at the office now, and I mentally gloat at my bad influence. Tom Waits begins to sing and I reach for the decanter of vodka.

I used to ask about Tuesday, but Seth is more hesitant to talk about her. I’ve always chalked it up to her being in a position of authority as first wife. The first wife, the first woman he loved. It’s daunting in a way to know I’m only his second choice. I’ve consoled myself with that fact that I am Seth’s legal wife, that even though they’re still together, he had to divorce her to marry me. I don’t like Tuesday. She’s selfish; her career takes the most dominant role in her life—the space I reserve for Seth. And while I disapprove, I can’t entirely blame her, either. He’s gone five days of the week. We have one rotating day that we take turns with, but it’s our job to fill the week with things that aren’t him: stupid things for me—pottery making, romance novels and Netflix; but for Tuesday, it’s her career. I root around in the pocket of my robe, searching for my ChapStick. We have entire lives outside of our marriage. It’s the only way to stay sane.

Pizza for dinner again? I used to ask. He’d admitted to me once that Tuesday was a takeout-ordering girl rather than a cooking girl.

Always so judgmental about other people’s cooking skills, he’d tease.

I set up two glasses and fill them with ice. I can hear Seth moving behind me, getting up from the couch. The soda bottle hisses as I twist off the cap and top off the glasses. Before I’m finished making our drinks, he’s behind me, kissing my neck. I dip my head to the side to give him better access. He takes his drink from me and walks over to the window while I sit.

I look over from my spot on the couch, my glass sweaty against my palm.

Seth lowers himself next to me on the couch, setting his drink on the coffee table. He reaches to rub my neck while he laughs.

His eyes are dancing, flirtatious. I fell in love with those eyes and the way they always seemed to be laughing. I lift one corner of my mouth in a smile and lean back into him, enjoying the solid feel of his body against my back. His fingers trail up and down my arm.

What’s left to discuss? I want to make sure I’m familiar with all areas of his life. “The business...?”

“Alex...” He pauses. I watch as he runs the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip, a habit I’m endeared to.

What has he done now?

“I caught him in another lie,” he says.

Alex is Seth’s business partner; they started the company together. For as long as I can remember, Alex has been the face of the business: meeting with clients and securing the jobs, while Seth is the one who manages the actual building of the homes, dealing with things like the contractors and inspections. Seth has told me that the very first time they butted heads was over the name of the company: Alex wanted his last name to be incorporated into the name of the business, while Seth wanted it to include the Pacific Northwest. They’d fought it out and settled on Emerald City Development. Over the last years their attention to detail and sheer beauty of the homes they build has secured them several high-profile clients. I have never met Alex; he doesn’t know I exist. He thinks Seth’s wife is Tuesday. When Seth and Tuesday were first married, they’d go on vacations with Alex and his wife—once to Hawaii and another time on a ski holiday to Banff. I’ve seen Alex in photos. He’s an inch shorter than his wife, Barbara, who is a former Miss Utah. Squat and balding, he has a close-lipped smugness about him.

There are so many people I haven’t met. Seth’s parents, for example, and his childhood friends. As second wife, I may never have the chance.

“Oh?” I say. “What’s up?”

My existence is exhausting, all of the games I play. This is a woman’s curse. Be direct, but not too direct. Be strong, but not too strong. Ask questions, but not too many. I take a sip of my drink and sit on the couch next to him.

“Do you enjoy this?” he asks. “It’s sort of strange, you asking about—”

“I enjoy you.” I smile. “Knowing your world, what you feel and experience when you aren’t with me.” It’s true, isn’t it? I love my husband, but I’m not the only one. There are others. My only power is my knowledge. I can thwart, one-up, fuck his brains out and feign an aloof detached interest, all with a few well-timed questions.

Seth sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says.

I study his face. For tonight, he’s done talking about them. He holds out a hand to help me up and I take it, letting him pull me to my feet.

We make love this time, kissing deeply as I wrap my legs around him. I shouldn’t wonder, but I do. How does a man love so many women? A different woman almost every other day. And where do I fall in the category of favor?

He falls asleep quickly, but I do not. Thursday is the day I don’t sleep.

TWO

On Friday morning, Seth leaves before I wake up. I tossed and turned until four and then must have fallen into a deep sleep, because I didn’t hear him when he left. Sometimes I feel like a girl who wakes up alone in bed after a one-night stand, him sneaking out before she can ask his name. I always lie in bed longer on Fridays and stare at the dent in his pillow until the sun shines right through the window and into my eyes. But the sun has yet to curl her fingers over the horizon, and I stare at that dent like it’s giving me life.

Mornings are hard. In a normal marriage, you wake up beside a person, validate your life with their sleep-soaked body. There are routines and schedules, and they get boring, but they are a comfort, as well. I do not have the comfort of normalcy: a snoring husband whom I kick during the night, or toothpaste glued to the sink that I scrub away in frustration. Seth can’t be felt in the fibers of this home, and most days that makes my heart heavy. He’s barely here and then he’s gone, off to another woman’s bed while mine grows cold.

I glance at my phone, apprehension making curlicues in my belly. I don’t like to text him. I imagine he is flooded with texts every day from the others, but this morning I have the urge to reach for my phone and text him: I miss you. He knows, surely he knows. When you don’t see your husband for five days out of the week he must know that you miss him. But I don’t reach for my phone, and I don’t text him. Resolutely, I throw my legs over the side of the bed and slide my feet into my slippers instead, my toes curling into the soft fleece inside. The slippers are part of my routine, my reach for normalcy. I walk to the kitchen, glancing out of the window at the city below. There is a snake of red brake lights down 99 as commuters wait their turn at the light. Wipers swish back and forth, clearing windshields of the mist-like rain. I wonder if Seth is among them, but no, he takes 5 away from here. Away from me.

I open the fridge and pull out a glass bottle of Coke, setting it on the counter. I dig around the silverware drawer for the bottle opener, cursing when a toothpick slides underneath my fingernail. I stick the finger in my mouth as I loosen the cap off the bottle with my free hand. I only keep one bottle of Coke in the fridge, and I hide the rest underneath the sink behind the watering can. Each time I drink the bottle, I replace it. That way, it looks like the same bottle of Coke has been sitting there forever. There is no one to fool but myself. And perhaps I don’t want Seth to know that I drink Coke for breakfast. He would tease me and I don’t mind his teasing, but soda for breakfast is not something you want people to know. When I was a little girl, I was the only one of my friends who liked to play with Barbie. At ten, they’d already moved on to makeup kits and MTV, asking their parents for clothes for Christmas instead of the new Barbie camper van. I was terribly ashamed of my love of Barbie dolls—especially after they made such a big deal out of it, calling me a baby. In one of the saddest moments of my young life, I packed away my Barbie dolls, retiring them to a box in my closet. I cried myself to sleep that night, not wanting to part with something I loved so much but knowing the teasing I’d take for it if I didn’t. When my mother found the box a few weeks later while packing laundry away, she’d questioned me about it. I tearfully told her the truth. I was too old for Barbie and it was time to move on.

You can play with them in secret. No one has to know. You don’t have to give up something you love just because other people disapprove, she said.

Secrets: I’m good at having them and keeping them.

I see that he made himself toast before he left. The remnants of bread crumbs litter the counter, and a knife lies in the sink, slick with butter. I chastise myself for not getting up early to make him something. Next week, I tell myself. Next week I’ll be better, I’ll feed my husband breakfast. I’ll be one of those wives who delivers sex and sustenance three times a day. Anxiety grips my stomach and I wonder if Monday and Tuesday get up to make him breakfast. Have I been slacking all this time? Does he think of me as neglectful because I stayed in bed? I clean up the crumbs, swiping them into my hand and then angrily shaking them into the sink, and then I carry my Coke to the living room. The bottle is cold in my palm and I sip, thinking of all the ways I could be better.

When I wake up, some time has gone by, the light has changed. I sit up and see the bottle of Coke turned on its side, a brown stain seeping into the carpet around it.

“Shit,” I say aloud, standing up. I must have dozed off holding the bottle. That’s what I get for lying awake all night, staring at the ceiling. I rush to grab a rag and stain solution to clean the carpet and drop to my knees, scrubbing furiously. The Coke has dried into the knotted beige rug, a sticky caramel. I am angry about something, I realize as tears roll down my face. The drips join the stain on the carpet and I scrub harder. When the carpet is clean, I fall back on my haunches and close my eyes. What has happened to me? How have I become this docile person, living for Thursdays and the love of a man who divides himself so thinly among three women? If you’d told nineteen-year-old me that this would be my life, she’d have laughed in your face.

The day he found me was five years ago, next week. I was studying in a coffee shop, my final nursing exam looming ahead of me, a wall I didn’t feel ready to climb. I’d not slept in two days, and I was at the point where I was drinking coffee like it was water just to stay awake. Half-delirious, I swayed in my armchair as Seth sat down next to me. I remember being irritated by his presence. There were five open armchairs to choose from; why take the one right next to me? He was handsome: glossy black hair and turquoise eyes, well-slept, well-groomed and well-spoken. He’d asked if I was studying to be a nurse and I’d snapped my answer, only to apologize a moment later for my rudeness. He’d waved away my apology and asked if he could quiz me.

A laugh burst from between my lips until I realized he was serious. “You want to spend your Friday night quizzing a half-dead nursing student?” I’d asked him.

“Sure,” he’d said, eyes glowing with humor. “I figure if I get in your good graces, you won’t say no when I ask you to have dinner with me.”

I remember frowning at him, wondering if it was a joke. Like his buddies had sent him over to humiliate the sad girl in the corner. He was too handsome. His type never bothered with girls like me. While I certainly wasn’t ugly, I was on the plain side. My mother always said I got the brains and my sister, Torrence, got the beauty.

“Are you being serious?” I’d asked. I suddenly felt self-conscious about my limp ponytail and lack of mascara.

“Only if you like Mexican,” he’d said. “I can’t fall for a girl who doesn’t like Mexican.”

“I don’t like Mexican,” I told him, and he’d grabbed at his heart like he was in pain. I’d laughed at the sight of him—a too-handsome man pretending to have a heart attack in a coffee shop.

“Just kidding. What sort of messed-up human doesn’t like Mexican?”

Against my better judgment and despite my insanely busy schedule, I’d agreed to meet him for dinner the following week. A girl had to eat, after all. When I pulled up to the restaurant in my beat-up little Ford, I’d half expected him not to be there. But as soon as I stepped out of the car, I spotted him waiting by the entrance, just out of reach of the rain, droplets spotting the shoulders of his trench coat.

He’d been charming through the first course, asking me questions about school, my family and what I planned to do after. I’d dipped chips in salsa, trying to remember the last time a person had taken this much interest in me. Wholly taken with him, I’d answered every single one of his questions with enthusiasm, and by the time dinner was finished, I realized I knew nothing about him.

“We’ll save that for dinner next week,” he’d said when I brought it up.

“How do you know there will be a next week?” I asked him.

He just smiled at me, and I knew right then that I was in trouble.

I shower and dress for the day, only pausing to check my phone as I’m on my way out the door. Since Seth is gone for five days of the week, I volunteer to take the late shifts that no one else wants. It’s unbearable to be sitting home all night alone, thinking about him being with the others. I prefer to keep my mind busy at all times, keep my focus. Fridays, I go to the gym and then the market. Sometimes I grab lunch with a girlfriend, but lately everyone seems to be too busy to meet up. Most of my friends are either newly married or newly mothered, our lives all having forked off into jobs and families.

My phone says that Seth has texted me. Miss you already. Can’t wait for next week.

I smile stiffly as I hit the button for the elevator. It’s so easy for him to express the missing when he always has someone by his side. I shouldn’t think like that. I know he loves each of us, misses each of us when he’s away.

Should we have pizza for dinner when I see you next? My attempt at a joke.

He texts back immediately, sending the laugh/cry emoji. What did people do before emojis? It seems like the only reasonable way to lighten a loaded sentence.

I tuck my phone back into my purse as I step into the elevator, a small smile on my lips. Even on my hardest days, a little text from Seth makes everything all right. And there are plenty of hard days, days where I feel inadequate or insecure about my role in his life.

I love you all differently but equally.

I wanted to know what that meant, the specifics. Was it sexual? Emotional? And if he had to choose, if he had a gun to his head, would he pick me?

When Seth first told me about his wife, we were at an Italian restaurant called La Spiga on Capitol Hill. It was our fourth date. The awkwardness of two people getting to know each other had rolled away, and a more comfortable phase had taken its place. We were holding hands by then...kissing. He’d said he had something to talk to me about and I’d planned for perhaps a conversation about where our relationship was going. As soon as the word wife was out of his mouth, I’d set my fork down, wiped any pasta sauce from my lips, picked up my purse and left. He’d chased me down the street just as I was hailing a taxi, and then our server had chased him down, demanding to be paid for our partially eaten meal. We’d all stood on the sidewalk awkwardly until Seth pleaded with me to come back inside. I’d done so hesitantly, but part of me wanted to hear what he had to say. And how was there anything to say? How could a man justify something like that?

“I know how it sounds, trust me.” He’d taken an extralong swig of wine before continuing. “It’s not about sex. I don’t have an addiction, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

It was exactly what I was thinking actually. I’d folded my arms across my chest and waited. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw our server lingering nearby. I wondered if he was waiting for us to make another run out of the restaurant and abandon the check.

“My father...” he started. I rolled my eyes. Half the known world could start an excuse with “my father.” Nevertheless, I waited for him to continue. I was a woman of my word.

The words glided over me: “My parents...polygamists...four mothers.”

I stared at him in shock. It was like being halfway down a guy’s pants when he told you he was really a woman. At first I thought he was lying, making a bad joke, but I’d seen something in his eyes. He’d given me a tender spot of information and he was waiting to be judged. I didn’t know what to say. What response was appropriate? You saw that sort of thing on television, but in real life...?

“I grew up in Utah,” he continued. “I left as soon as I turned eighteen. I swore I was against everything they believed in.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. And I didn’t. I was tense, my hands clenched under the table, nails digging into my palms.

He’d run a hand across his face, suddenly looking ten years older.

“My wife doesn’t want children,” he told me. “I’m not that guy, the one who pressures a woman to be something she’s not.”

I’d seen him with a different set of eyes then—a dad with one kid on his shoulders and another at his feet. Ice cream sundaes and T-ball games. He had the same dreams that I did, that most of us did.

“So, where do I come in? You’re looking for a breeder and I fit your type?” I was being antagonistic, but it was an easy stab. Why had he chosen me, and who said I even wanted children?

He looked stung by my accusation, but I didn’t feel bad about saying it. Men like him made me sick. But I had come back to the table to hear him out, and I would. At the time, it was the most absurd thing I’d ever heard. He had a wife, but wanted a new one. To start a family. Who the hell did he think he was? It was sick and I told him so.

“I understand,” he’d said, downtrodden. “I completely understand.” After that, he paid the bill and we went our separate ways, me giving him a chilly goodbye. He told me later that he’d never expected to hear from me again, but I’d gone home and tossed and turned in bed all night, unable to sleep.

But I liked him. I really, really liked him. There was something about him—a charisma, maybe, or a perceptiveness. Either way, he never made me feel less when I was with him. Not like the boys I’d dated in college, who looked at their own reflection in your eyes, and considered you a “right now” relationship. When I was with Seth, I felt like the only one. I’d shoved all of those feelings aside to grieve the end of what I had thought was the promising start of a new relationship. I’d even gone on a few dates, one with a fireman from Bellevue and another with a small-business owner in Seattle. Both dates ended miserably for me, as I only compared the men to Seth. And then, about a month later, after grieving more deeply than I should for a man I barely knew, I worked up the nerve to call him.

“I miss you,” I said as soon as he picked up. “I don’t want to miss you but I do.”

And then I’d asked if his wife knew if he was looking for someone new to have his babies. There was a long pause on Seth’s end, longer than I would have liked. I was about to tell him to forget I even asked when he replied with a breathy, “Yes.”

“Wait,” I said, pressing the phone closer to my ear. “Did you say yes?”

“We agreed on this together,” he said with more confidence. “That I needed to be with someone who wanted the same things as I do.”

“You told her?” I asked again.

“After our first date, I thought we had something and I told her that. I knew it was a risk, but we had something. A connection.”

“And she was just okay with it?”

“No... Yes. I mean, it’s hard. She said it was time to look at our options. That she loved me but understood.”

I was quiet on my end of the phone, digesting everything he was saying.

“Can I see you?” he’d asked. “Just for a drink or a coffee. Something simple.”

I wanted to say no, to be the type of strong, resolved woman who didn’t budge. But instead, I found myself making plans to meet him at a local coffee shop the following week. When I hung up, I had to remind myself that I’d been the one to call him and he hadn’t manipulated me into anything. You’re in control, I told myself. You’ll be his legal wife. I was so, so wrong.

THREE

I arrive home Saturday morning after my shift and immediately fall into bed. It had been a long night, the kind that stretches you into mental and emotional exhaustion. There was a ten-car pileup on 5 that brought a dozen people into the emergency room, and then a domestic disturbance sent a husband into the ER with three gunshot wounds in his abdomen. His wife had run in ten minutes later with a toddler on her hip, blood soaking through her yellow shirt. She was screaming that it was all a mistake. Every night in the ER was a horror movie: open wounds, crying, pain. By the end of the night, the floors were sticky with blood, slicked over with vomit. I wear black scrubs so the mess doesn’t show.

I’m just dozing off when I hear the front door open and close, followed by the sound of a train whistle. The whistle part of our security system notifies me every time the front door opens. I bolt upright in bed, my eyes wide. Did I dream that or did it just happen? Seth is in Portland; he texted me last night and never mentioned coming home. I wait, completely still, ears pricked—ready to shoot out of bed and—

My head swivels left and right as I look for a weapon, my heart pounding. The gun my father gave me for my twenty-first birthday is stashed somewhere in my closet. I try to recall where but I’m trembling from fear. Another weapon, then... My bedroom is a collection of soft, feminine things; there are no weapons on hand. I throw off blankets, struggling to my feet. I’m a stupid, defenseless girl who has a gun and doesn’t know where it is or how to use it. Did I forget to lock the door? I’d been half-asleep when I got home, stumbling around, kicking off shoes... And then I hear my mother’s voice from the foyer, calling my name. My panic recedes, but my heart is still pounding. I hold a hand over it, closing my eyes. A jingle—when my mother moves, she jingles. I relax, my shoulders slumping into a normal, relaxed position. That’s right. She was coming over today to have lunch. How had I forgotten? You’re tired, you need to sleep, I tell myself. I straighten my hair in the dresser mirror and scrub the sleep from my eyes before stepping out of the bedroom and into the hall. I arrange my face into something cheerful.

“Mom, hi,” I say, stepping forward to give her a quick hug. “I just got home. Sorry, I haven’t had time to shower.”

My mother steps out of my embrace to look me over; her perfectly coiffed hair catches the light from the window and I see she has fresh highlights.

“You look fantastic,” I say. It’s what I’m supposed to say, but she really does.

“You look tired,” she tsks. “Why don’t you shower and I’ll make lunch for us here instead of going out.” Just like that, I’m dismissed in my own home. It’s uncanny how she can still make me feel like a teenager.

I nod, feeling a rush of gratitude, despite her tone. After the night I had, the thought of getting dressed to go out is unbearable.

I take a quick shower, and when I come out wrapped in my robe, my mother has whipped up chicken salad on a croissant. A tall mimosa sits next to my plate. I slide into my chair, grateful. My freshly stocked fridge hadn’t disappointed her. I learned to cook by watching her, and if there was one thing she emphasized, it was to always keep your fridge stocked for that surprise meal you’ll have to cook.

“How’s Seth?” is her first question as she takes her seat across from me. My mother: always to the point, always on time, always organized. She is the perfect homemaker and wife.

“He was tired on Thursday when he was here. We didn’t have a chance to talk very much.” The truth. I’m afraid my voice has betrayed more, but when I glance up at her face, she’s preoccupied with her food.

“That poor man,” she says, cutting into her croissant with determination. The undersides of her arms flap as she saws at the roll, her mouth pinched in disapproval. “All of that commuting back and forth. I know it was the right decision for both of you, but it’s still very hard.” The only reason she’s saying it was the right decision is to not upset me. She’d told me in no uncertain terms that my duty was to be with Seth, and that I should give up my job to be wherever he was. She used to nag about marrying him, and now she’s transitioned comfortably into the topic of a baby.

I nod. I have no desire to have this discussion with my mother. She always finds a way to make me feel like a failure at being Seth’s wife. Mostly, it’s about giving him a child. She’s convinced he’ll stop loving me if my uterus doesn’t woman-up. I could silence her by telling her that he already has another wife, two actually, who fill the spaces where I fail. That one of them is growing his baby as we speak.

“You could always rent this place out and join him in Oregon,” she offers. “It’s not so bad. We lived there for a year when you were two, in Grandma’s house. You’ve always loved that house so much.” She says this like I don’t know, as if I haven’t heard the stories before.

“Can’t,” I tell her through a mouthful. “He has to be in the Seattle office two days a week. We’d have to have a place here, anyway. And besides, I don’t want to leave. My life is here, my friends are here and I love my job.” True, true, not true. I’ve never liked Portland; I thought of it as the poor man’s Seattle: same scenery, similar weather, grubbier city. My grandparents lived and died there, never once leaving the state. Aside from their main house, they had a vacation home in the south, near California. The thought of Portland makes me feel claustrophobic.

My mother looks at me disapprovingly, a fleck of mayonnaise smeared across a pearly pink fingernail. She’s old-school that way. In her mind, you went wherever your man went or he became susceptible to cheating. If only she knew.

“This was the agreement we made and it makes the most sense,” I say firmly. And then I add, “For now,” to appease her. And it is true. Seth is a builder. He recently opened up an office in Portland, and while his business partner, Alex, oversees the Seattle branch, Seth has to spend most of his week in the Portland office overseeing his projects there.

Monday and Tuesday are there, living in the city. They get to see the most of him and it makes me sick with jealousy. He often has lunch with one of them during the day, a luxury I don’t have, since he spends most of Thursday traveling back to Seattle to see me. On Fridays, he spends the day in the Seattle office, and then sometimes meets me for dinner before heading back to Portland on Saturday. The rotating day the wives share is spent on travel for the time being, but with two of his wives living in Oregon, I’ve begun to think it will be permanent. It’s hard being part of something so unusual and not having anyone to talk to about it. None of my friends know, though I’ve almost blurted the truth to my best friend, Anna, half a dozen times.

Sometimes I wish I could reach out to one of the wives, have a support group. But Seth is set on doing things differently than what he grew up around. We, the wives, have no contact with each other, and I’ve respected his wishes not to snoop. I don’t even know their names.

“When will you try for a baby?” my mother asks.

Again. She asks this every time we’re together and I’m quite sick of it. She doesn’t know the truth and I haven’t had the heart to tell her.

“If you had a baby, he’d be forced to be here more permanently,” she says conspiratorially.

I stare at her, my mouth open. My sister and I were the sum of my mother’s life. Our successes were her successes; our failures, her failures. I suppose it was fine and dandy to live for your children while you raised them, but what happened after? When they went off to live their own lives and you were left with nothing—no hobbies, no career, no identity.

“Mother, are you suggesting I trap Seth with a baby?” I ask, setting my fork down and staring at her in shock.

My mother is a bit of a live wire, known to make offhanded comments about other people’s lives. But telling me to get pregnant to force my husband home is too far, even for her.

“Well, it’s not like it’s never been done before...” She’s chuffing, her eyes darting around. She knows she’s gone too far. I feel a wash of guilt. I never told my mother about the emergency hysterectomy. At the time I hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and admitting it now would make me even more of a failure in her eyes.

“That’s not who I am. That’s not who we are as a couple. Besides, who would take over for Seth at the Portland office?” I snap. “You’re talking about our finances and our future.” Not just mine, either. Seth has a rather large family to support. I drop my face into my hands, and my mother stands up and comes around the table to comfort me.

“I’m sorry, little girl,” she says, using her pet name for me. “I overstepped. You know what’s right for your relationship.”

I nod appreciatively and pick up a stray piece of chicken salad with my finger, licking it off my thumb. None of this is normal, and if Seth and I are going to make it work, I need to have a talk with him about my feelings. I’ve spent so much time pretending to be cool with everything that he has no clue about my struggles. That isn’t fair to him or to me.

My mother leaves an hour later, promising to take me to lunch on Monday instead. “Rest up,” she says, giving me a hug.

I close the door behind her and breathe a sigh of relief.

I’m desperately tired, but instead of heading to bed, I wander into Seth’s little closet. Despite being gone for most of the week, he keeps a stash of clothes here. I run my hands over the suit jackets and dress pants, lifting a shirt to my nose to find his smell. I love him so much, and despite the awful uniqueness of our situation, I can’t imagine being married to anyone else. And that’s what love is about, isn’t it? Working with what your partner came with. And mine came with two other women.

I’m about to turn off the little overhead light and leave when something catches my eye. Poking out of a dress pants’ pocket is the corner of a piece of paper. I pull it out, at first worried the pants will be washed with the paper in the pocket and ruin the rest of the wash, but once I have it in my hands, I’m curious. It’s folded into a neat square. I only hold it in my palm for a moment before opening it to have a look. A doctor’s bill. I scan the words, wondering if something is wrong or if Seth went in for a checkup, but his name isn’t anywhere on the paper. In fact, the bill is made out to a Hannah Ovark, her address listed in the top corner as 324 Galatia Lane, Portland, Oregon. Seth’s doctor is in Seattle.

“Hannah,” I say out loud. The receipt in my hand says she was in for a checkup and labs. Could Hannah be...Monday?

I turn off the closet light and carry the paper with me to the living room, unsure of what to do. Should I ask Seth about it, or pretend I never saw it? My MacBook is sitting next to me on the sofa. I shift it into my lap and open Facebook. I have a vague sense that I’m breaking some sort of rule.

I type her name into the search bar and tap my finger on my knee while I wait for the results. Three profiles come up: one is an older woman, perhaps in her forties, who lives in Atlanta; the other is a pink-haired girl who looks to be in her early teens. I click on the third profile. Seth told me that Monday was blond, but had never given any other details about her appearance. My vision of a chill-looking surfer girl is shattered as I stare at Hannah Ovark. She isn’t a surfer, and she doesn’t have the blond innocence I was hoping for. I shut my laptop rather abruptly and stalk off to the bathroom to find my sleeping pills. I desperately need sleep. I’m feeling loopy and it’s starting to affect the way I see things.

A row of orange bottles stares out at me from the medicine cabinet. Little sentinels with purposes ranging from drowsy numbness to staying alert. I reach for the Ambien and lay a pill on my tongue. I drink water straight from the tap to wash it down and then I curl up on the bed and wait to sink into oblivion.

FOUR

I wake up disoriented and groggy. The sun sits high outside of the window, but hadn’t it been early evening when I fell asleep? I reach for my alarm clock to check the time and see that I’ve been asleep for thirteen hours. I hop out of bed too quickly and the room spins around me.

“Shit, shit, shit.” I grab on to the wall to steady myself and stay there until I feel sturdy on my feet. My phone sits facedown on the dresser, the battery almost depleted. I have seven missed calls from Seth, and three voice messages. I call him back without listening to the messages, a sense of dread growing with each ring.

“Are you all right?” is the first thing he says to me when he picks up. His voice is strained and I immediately feel guilty for making him worry.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I tell him. “I took a sleeping pill and must have conked out for the night. I’m sorry, I feel like such a jerk.”

“I was worried,” he says, his voice sounding less tense than it did a moment ago. “I almost called the hospital to see when you left.”

“I’m truly sorry,” I say. “Is everything all right on that side?”

It’s not. I can already tell by the sound of his voice. He couldn’t possibly know that I’d found Hannah, could he? I wrap a strand of hair around and around my finger while I wait for him to speak.

“Just some trouble at work,” he says. “Unreliable contractors. I can’t talk about it right now. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

I thrill that it’s my voice he wanted to hear. Not the others’. Mine.

“I wish I could see you,” I say.

“You could take a few days off of work. Drive down and spend a couple of days in Portland with me...”

I almost drop the phone in my excitement. “Really? You would...want that?” I’m staring at myself in the dresser mirror as I speak. My hair is longer than I’ve ever grown it; it needs professional attention. I touch a limp strand and wonder if my stylist can fit me in before I leave. A little getaway seems like a good reason for some grooming.

“Of course,” he says. “Come tomorrow. You have all of that vacation time you haven’t used.”

My eyes rove over the bedroom furniture, the whitewashed woods, and rustic baskets. Maybe a change of scenery is exactly what I need. I haven’t felt myself lately.

“But where will I stay?”

“Hold on a sec...” His voice is muffled as I hear someone on his end say something to him, then he comes back on the line.

“I have to go. I’ll book a room at the Dossier. See you tomorrow?”

I want to ask him about Monday and Tuesday, if he plans on ditching them for me, but he’s in a rush.

“I’m so excited,” I say. “Tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you, too, baby.” And then he hangs up.

I call work straightaway and arrange to have three of my shifts covered, and then I call my stylist, who says she’s had a cancellation and can see me in an hour. Two hours later, I am home with a fresh color and cut, and heading to my closet to pack. I don’t remember the paper I found or Hannah Ovark until I go looking for my MacBook, which I plan on taking with me. I slump onto the sofa and stare at the screen, at the evidence of my stalking. My main screen is still open to Facebook, her smiling face staring up at me. It feels different to be doing this in the light of day, more deliberate and sneaky. I hesitate, my mouse hovering over her profile. Once I have information about her I can’t go back; it will be there imprinted in my mind forever. I click on her profile, holding my breath, but when the screen loads, I see she has everything set to private. Frowning, I close the browser and shut down my computer.

Hannah is more of a supermodel than a laid-back surfer. Her lips are full and perfect and she has the type of cheekbones you only see on Scandinavian models.

The next morning I wake up still thinking about Hannah. I try to clear my mind of her face as I carry my overnight bag down to the carport. But at the last moment, I take the elevator back upstairs and retrieve the paper from my nightstand, tucking it into the deepest, most hidden pocket of my wallet. Just in case I need her address. But why would you need it? I ask myself as I buckle my seat belt and pull out of the carport.

Just in case... Just in case I want to see what she looks like in real life. Just in case I want to have a conversation with her. That type of just in case. It is my right, isn’t it? To know who I am sharing my husband with? Perhaps I am tired of wondering.

The drive to Portland is around two hours if the traffic gods are feeling generous. I roll my window all the way down and turn up the music. When my hair is a tangled mess, I decide to give the music a break and phone my best friend, Anna, instead. Anna moved to Venice Beach a few months ago for a guy she met online.

“That’s great that you’re going to see him,” she says. “Did you buy some new lingerie?”

“I didn’t!” I say. “But good thinking. I can stop downtown and pick something up. Should I go with sexy trashy, or sexy beautiful?”

“Definitely trashy. Men like to think they’re fucking a slut.”

I laugh at how crass she is.

“Hey,” she says when there’s a lull in the conversation. “How have you been since—”

“Fine,” I snap. I cut her off before she can say any more. I don’t want to go there today. Today Seth and I are having a sexy getaway. “Listen, I have to go. Just pulling into the hotel now. Call you next week?”

“Sure,” she responds, but she doesn’t sound so sure. That’s Anna, always worrying. We went to high school together and were roommates in college. When I first introduced her to Seth, she loved him, but then gradually something changed between them, her attitude turning distinctly sour. Like everyone else in my life, I chose to keep our true lives a secret from her, so Anna has no idea about the others. I figured he lost his glamour once she got to know him, and she changed her mind. Anna and I have very different tastes in men, and I hardly ever like her boyfriends, so how could I blame her for not liking my husband?

I park my car myself, avoiding the valet so I can slip out before Seth arrives and grab something sexy from one of the department stores. Hannah’s photo looms in my mind. It’s no wonder Seth didn’t want me to know anything about her. Once I’ve checked into the hotel room, I study my face in the mirror, wondering what it is that Seth sees in me. I’ve always thought myself to be mildly attractive, sort of in the girl-next-door kind of way. But if you had a woman like Hannah, why would you go for a woman with boring brown hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose? I have a nice figure—my chest has been a focal point for men since I was sixteen—but I’m not tall, or slender, or graceful by any means. My hips are round and so is my rear. Seth, a self-proclaimed ass man, always reaches around to grope my backside when we hug. He always makes me feel sexy and beautiful—until I saw Hannah, that is. He’s either a man of diverse taste or he’s just gathering wives for the heck of it. Seeing Hannah’s picture makes me curious about Tuesday, but there’s no way Seth would tell me her name. He’d be angry enough knowing I snooped on his pregnant Portland wife.

Glancing at my watch, I see that it’s lunchtime. I decide to drive over to the Nordstrom in the city and grab some lunch while I’m there. Portland is more low-key than Seattle, which is a crisscross of one-way streets and fast-limbed pedestrians. I have little trouble navigating the tight lanes of the city and parking in a garage a block away from the department store. I find a black lace bra and panty duo and pick out a sheer robe to wear over it, and carry the items to the register.

“Anything else I can get for you today?” the saleslady asks, walking around the register to hand me my purchase.

“Yes,” I hear myself say. “Can you tell me how far Galatia Lane is? I’m not from around here.”

“Oh,” she says. “It’s just on the outskirts of the city. About four miles. Cute little street, has those beautiful restored Victorian houses.”

“Hmm,” I say, pressing my lips together in a smile. “Thank you.”

I drive there straightaway, then pull over, the tires grating along the curb. I dip my head to eye the houses, my hands still gripping the steering wheel. It isn’t too late to leave. It is as simple as shifting the car into Drive and not looking back. I tap a finger as I decide, my eyes darting from house to house. I’m already here—what is the damage in having a look around? Even if Hannah Ovark isn’t Monday, this neighborhood is beautiful. Leaving my Nordstrom bag in the front seat, I step out of the car and walk along the shaded pavement, eyeing the houses in wonder. They look like gingerbread houses: broad turrets, window boxes, white picket fencing, each one painted the color of a childhood fantasy. A soft pink, a Tiffany blue—there’s even a house that is the color of mint chocolate chip ice cream, the shutters a rich brown. I remember the feel of the frozen chips of chocolate wedged between teeth, the way you’d suck at a tooth to loosen their hold. A neighborhood of nostalgia. How perfectly annoying that Monday would live here. I think of my condo downtown, stacked on top of a dozen others, people living vertically in little spaces in the sky. No magic, no mint chocolate chip paint, just long elevator rides and city views. I wonder what life would be like living in a place like this. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I walk right past number 324 and have to backtrack.

Hannah’s house is cream-colored with a matte black door. There are green shutters on the windows and flower boxes that hold tiny evergreens. The garden is chock-full of plants—not flowers, but carefully tended greens. I have a new appreciation for her, a woman who tends evergreens over flowers, things that live. I spend five minutes staring, admiring it all, when a voice makes me jump.

“Shit,” I say, holding a hand over my heart. When I turn around, she’s staring up at the house, too, a blond with wispy pieces of hair framing her face. She has her head tilted to the side like she’s really studying it.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

My thoughts arrange themselves around her face. It’s a delayed response, recognizing someone in public who you’ve only known online. You have to match the features, the airbrushed skin to the real skin.

Hannah. My heart almost leaps out of my chest as I stare at her. I’ve broken a rule, breached a contract. I’ve always wondered about deer, why they don’t run when they see a car barreling toward them. But here I am, frozen in place, heart whirring in my ears.

“It is,” I agree, for lack of anything better to say. I add, “Is it yours?”

“Yes,” she says brightly. “My husband owned it before we got married. After the wedding we did a remodel. So. Much. Work,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Luckily, it’s what my husband does for a living, so he handled everything.”

I love you all the same, wasn’t that what he always said? The same! Yet here she is with a house right out of Design and Home while I wilt away in a high-rise. Clearly, she is the type you buy a house for and I am the type who gets a card. She is wearing a flowered kimono, a tank top and jeans. A sliver of her stomach is visible above the waistband of her jeans, smooth and taut. No wonder Seth doesn’t want us near each other—I’d die of insecurity.

“Would you like to come in and see it?” she asks suddenly. “People often knock on the door and want a tour. I never knew that owning a house could make me so popular.”

When she laughs, it’s throaty, and I wonder if she’s a smoker. Not anymore, I tell myself, eyeing her belly. It’s too flat to contain life, too hollow. Thoughts of her pregnancy rouse images in my mind—of her long legs wrapped around Seth, him pushing relentlessly into her.

“Yes, I’d love to.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Yes, I’d love to. I could smack myself. But instead, I follow her up the path and to the front door, where she pulls out a key. A tiny plastic sandal dangles from the ring. Most of the word has been rubbed away but I can still make out the M-e-c-o of Mexico. There is an immediate tightening in my belly. Had she gone there with Seth? My God, all the things I don’t know. Hannah is struggling with the key. I hear her swear under her breath.

“Damn thing always sticks,” she says when it finally turns.

I shuffle behind her, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure no one is coming. This isn’t your neighborhood, I think. What difference does it make if someone sees you? Hannah is even more beautiful than in her photos, and on top of that, she’s nice, too. Nice enough to open her home for a private tour to a complete, gawking stranger. Not such a stranger, I think as I follow her inside. We share the same penis, after all.

I’m on the verge of maniacal laughter when my breath gets caught in my throat. I make a little eh-ehm sound to clear it while Hannah deposits her keys on an ornate hook and swings around to smile at me. The house creaks around us, gently asserting its age. The hardwood floors are gleaming and spotless, the type of rustic mahogany I’d wanted to put in the condo. Seth had vetoed my choice—he wanted something more modern, so we went with a slate gray instead. I stand at the foot of a curving staircase, unsure of whether or not I’m expected to remove my shoes. I have the eerie feeling that I’ve been here before, even though I know that’s not possible. Hannah doesn’t make a move to direct me either way, so I step out of them, leaving them near the stairs. Two bright pink flats in the midst of all this cream. A distressed table sits to my right; brightly colored bougainvillea spills from a vase on top of it. There are no family pictures hanging anywhere that I can see, and for that, I’m grateful. What would it be like to see your husband in family photos with another woman? Everything is tasteful and perfect. Hannah has an eye for decor.

“It’s so lovely,” I breathe, my eyes hungry to take everything in.

Hannah, who has removed her own shoes and slipped her feet into silk slippers, smiles at me, her Nordic cheekbones sharp and rosy. Seth’s face is hard angles, too, a square jaw and a long, straight nose. I wonder what godlike creature these two have created together, and my stomach cramps at the thought of their baby. Their baby. Their trip to Mexico. Their house.

“I’m Hannah, by the way,” she says as she leads me up the staircase. And then she’s telling me about the man who built the house for his new wife a hundred years ago, and I think about how Seth’s new, upgraded wife was living in it. It was just a year ago when I agreed to it all—our plans thwarted, but our love still there. I had wanted to please him, much like Tuesday, I imagine, when she agreed to me.

She leads me through several bedrooms and two restored bathrooms. I look for photos, but there are none. Then she takes me downstairs to see the sitting room and kitchen. I fall in love with the kitchen immediately. Three times the size of the tiny kitchen in my condo, there is enough space to cook several feasts all at once. Seeing the look on my face, Hannah grins.

“It wasn’t always this grand. I gave up the second sitting room to expand the kitchen. We like to entertain.”

“It’s lovely,” I say.

“It used to have yellow cabinets and a black-and-white checkered floor.” Her nose is curled like she finds the whole idea distasteful. I can picture it, the ancient kitchen with buttery cabinets, probably hand-painted by the first owner.

“We hated it. I know you’re supposed to appreciate that old charm, but I couldn’t wait to change it.”

We. Another shock. My Seth does not like to entertain. I try to picture him standing underneath the exposed beams of this ceiling, chopping onions at the marble island while Hannah pulls something from the double oven. It’s all too much and suddenly I feel dizzy. I lift a hand to my head and reach for a chair to steady myself.

“Are you all right?” There is concern in Hannah’s voice. She pulls a stool out from the island and I sit.

“Let me get you some water,” she says.

She returns with a tall glass of water and I drink it, wondering when was the last time I had anything to drink. There was tea at lunch, and a glass of rosé. I’m probably dehydrated.

“Listen, Hannah, you invited a stranger into your house. I could be a serial killer or something. And now you’re giving me water,” I say, shaking my head. “You can’t do things like that.”

Her face looks impish when she grins, her eyes brightly mischievous. She’s significantly younger than I am, but there’s also something regal and old about her. I doubt she ever drank too many Mike’s Hard Lemonades and retched into a toilet all night like I had in my teens. No, this woman is too put together, too responsible and too well-spoken. I could see what Seth saw, the elegance. The perfect mother to the perfect child.

“Well, now’s the right time to make a snack,” she says playfully. “I haven’t eaten.” She goes to the fridge and then the pantry, humming as she pulls things out. And when she comes back, there is an assortment of cheese, crackers and fruit on a wooden board, all arranged in a very artistic and grown-up way. I feel a kinship with her, her willingness to feed a stranger. I would have done the same. I eat a few pieces of cheese and immediately feel better.

As we eat, she tells me that she’s a freelance photographer. I ask if the framed prints in the hallway are hers. She lights up when she tells me yes. And again, I wonder why there aren’t any family photos around. You’d think a photographer would have a slew of pictures in their home.

“What do you do?” she asks me, and I tell her that I’m a nurse.

“Here at Regional?” she asks, interested.

“No, no. I’m here with my husband for the weekend. I live in Seattle.” I don’t expound on any of that. I’m scared to give myself away. We chat for a while longer about hospitals and the restoration of Hannah’s beautiful home before I stand.

“I’ve taken enough of your time,” I say, smiling at her warmly. “Look, this was so nice of you. Can I take you out to lunch next time I’m in town?”

“I’d love that,” she says eagerly. “I’m not from Oregon. I moved here to be with my husband, so I haven’t made many friends.”

“Oh, where are you from?” I tilt my head to the side, trying to recall if Seth had told me where she was from.

“Utah.”

My skin prickles. Seth is from Utah. Had he known Hannah when he lived there? No, that isn’t possible. Tuesday is his first wife; he’d been with her in Utah. There is an age difference between Seth and Hannah, so it isn’t likely they went to school together. Hannah pulls her phone from her back pocket and I tell her my number so she can program it in.

I head for the foyer and put on my shoes. I’m suddenly desperate to get out of here. What was I thinking, anyway? Seth could stop home during his lunch break and find me with Hannah. What would he say if he found two of his wives together? I make for the door and bend down to lift the lip of my shoe from where it’s folded against my heel. It’s then that I see the shards of glass on the floor near the window—two inches long and jagged. I pick it up and hold it in my palm. There is an empty hook on the wall where a picture once hung. I turn around to show the glass to Hannah.

“It was on the floor,” I say. “Don’t want you to slice your foot open...”

She takes it, thanking me, but I notice the blush that has crept up her neck. “Must have been the photo I had hanging there. There was an accident and it fell off the wall.”

I nod. These things happen. But then, as she pulls her hand away, the glass held gingerly between her fingers, I notice a sizable cluster of bruises on her forearm. They’re just turning purple. I avert my eyes quickly, so she won’t catch me staring, and open the door.

“Goodbye, then,” I say.

She waves before shutting the door.

I think about her bruises all the way back to my car. Had they looked like finger marks? No, I tell myself. You’re seeing things.

FIVE

I have just enough time to get back to the hotel and take a shower before I’m supposed to meet Seth for dinner. I’m distracted this time, almost driving into the back of a delivery truck that is stalled at a red light. Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. Her face swims before my eyes. I wear the black dress he likes, tight in all the right places, and let my hair hang loose around my shoulders. Beneath the dress, I am wearing the lingerie I chose earlier in the afternoon. The lace is itchy and I’ve made comparisons in my mind about how Hannah would look wearing the same thing. It will be a good night, I tell myself. I am looking forward to being with him during our stolen time. It feels like cheating and that thrills me. Hannah might be everything I’m not, but he chose to spend tonight with me. I call him to check the time of the reservation, and when he answers, his voice warms me right where it counts.

“How much did you spend?” he asks.

He’s joking, of course. He likes to act frugal when I spend money, but he always asks to see the things I bought and comments on them. He’s an interested husband, and those are rare.

“A lot,” I tell him.

He laughs. “I can’t wait to see you. I’ve been distracted at work all day thinking about tonight.”

“Will you come here, or should I meet you?” I ask.

“I’ll meet you there. Did you bring that black dress I like?”

“Oh, yes,” I say, smiling a little. Most days I still get butterflies when I hear his voice on the phone. Sometimes it makes me feel easy, like all he has to do is use that deep rumble and I’m putty in his hands. But today there is an absence of emotion as I listen to him. I can feel the slight disconnect in the recesses of my mind. We are bantering like we normally do, but my heart’s not in it. Perhaps actually seeing Hannah, the other wife, changed things for me. Made it all real instead of a situation I emotionally detached myself from. Their baby. Their trip to Mexico. Their house. I wish I had time for a drink, I think miserably as I grab my coat off the seat.

Seth is waiting for me outside when I pull up to valet. The restaurant is quaint and romantic—a place where new couples come to connect and old couples come to reconnect. I thrill that this is what he chose for our night together, noting the crisp, white linen napkins and ankle-length aprons the servers wear. The hostess leads us to a table in the corner; I take the seat facing the window. Instead of sitting across from me, Seth slides in next to me.

I look around to see if anyone is watching us, if they care. When I discover that no one is pointing fingers and laughing, I relax.

“I never thought I’d be that girl,” I say, sipping my water.

“We used to make fun of them, remember?” Seth laughs. “The gross couples...”

I smile. “Yeah, but now I feel like I can’t get enough of you. Probably because I have to share.”

“I’m yours,” he says. “I love you so much.”

His voice sounds flat to me. Has it always sounded like that? You’re being paranoid and nitpicking everything to death, I tell myself. He hasn’t changed, you have.

It’s hard not to wonder how often he says that to the others. Hannah’s face fills my mind and I feel a rush of insecurity. This is why Seth keeps us apart—so we won’t focus on jealousy and each other, but rather on our relationship with him. I bite back my feelings. That’s what I do: compartmentalize, organize, prioritize.

Seth orders a steak and I opt for the salmon. We chat about the hospital and the new house he’s building over in Lake Oswego for a retired actress. It’s all very banal and normal, a typical married couple discussing the small details of their lives. I almost feel better about everything, the wine softening the sharp corners of my anxiety, until I see a young blond woman walk up to the host stand cradling a newborn baby. The only thing visible is the crown of the baby’s head where a patch of dark hair peeps past the blanket. Jealousy rolls over me hot and heavy. I feel as if I can’t breathe, and yet I can’t tear my eyes away. The woman’s partner fusses over her, touching her tenderly, and then wrapping a protective arm around her as they stare down at their tiny creation, together. I freeze, watching them carefully, the familiar tide of pain creeping in. They share an intimacy because they made a child together. No, that’s not true of everyone. Plenty of people have children together and that’s all they have. But I can’t help but think of Hannah and Seth, how they’ll have something together that I won’t.

Seth sees me watching them and grabs my hand. “I love you,” he says, looking at me with concern.

Sometimes I think he can tell that I’m thinking about them—the others—and he rushes at me with words. Word salve for the second, barren wife. You couldn’t give me what I wanted most in the world, but hey! I still love you so very much.

“I know.” I smile sadly and look away from the happy family.

“You’re enough for me,” he says. “You know that, right?”

I want to lash out at him, ask if I’m enough, then why is he having a baby with someone else? Why is there anyone else? But I don’t. I don’t want to be that maudlin girl, a nagger. My mother was a nagger. I grew up seeing my father’s pained expressions when she’d rant on and on and I felt sorry for him. And her biting comments seemed to intensify with age, as did the crease lines on my father’s weathered forehead. His face was well-worked leather while hers was a veneer of Botox and filler.

“You look upset,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Hard week at work.”

I nod sympathetically. “Anything I can do to help?”

When Seth looks at me, his eyes are soft. He reaches for my hand, a sexy half smile on his lips.

“I chose this life and everything in it. I can manage. I worry about you, though. After—”

“You don’t need to worry. I’m fine.” I nod reassuringly. It’s a blatant lie, and perhaps if he weren’t so distracted—stretched so thin—he would see through it. I’m not fine, but I can be. In my weakness, I thought I could talk to him about my struggles, but he has enough of his own. Besides, if Hannah can do it, so can I. She’s expecting a baby with a man who has multiple wives, and yet when I was with her, I didn’t pick up on any insecurities. She appeared to be a happy woman. Then I think of the bruises on her arm, the purple marks, dark as plums, that resembled fingers, and my eyes narrow.

“What’s wrong?” Seth asks. “You did that thing with your eyebrows...” His hand grips my thigh underneath the table, squeezing gently, and I feel a tingling between my legs. My body betraying my mind, typical of me; I have no discipline. Not when it comes to Seth.

“What thing?” I ask, but I know what thing. I just like to hear him say it.

“Where you scrunch them up and then your lips pucker like you want to be kissed.”

“Maybe I do,” I throw back. “Have you thought of that?”

“I have.” Seth leans in to kiss me and I feel the softness of his lips press to mine. He smells of wine and himself and suddenly I want him to see the lingerie. I want to watch the lust rise in his eyes before he pushes me onto the bed. It’s a good thing to want your husband and to want him to want you, I think.

We are full-on making out like two teenagers when I hear a woman’s voice nearby—insolent, a little riled up. Seth pulls back to look over his shoulder, but I am still hazy-eyed and picturing the bed at the hotel.

“Lovers’ quarrel,” he says, turning back to me. Over his shoulder, I see a couple arguing at the bar.

I run my finger around the rim of my wineglass while I watch his face. I can tell he’s straining to hear what they’re saying as he stares at his water glass in concentration. He seems to be enjoying the sound of their voices, which are strained with tension. I watch the set of his lips to see if he’s taking a side, but no, he’s just listening. Seth and I rarely fight, probably on account of how agreeable I force myself to be. Had I ever seen him lose his temper? I flip through my memories, trying to conjure an image of my husband being angry enough to hit...grab...push.

“Seth,” I say. “How often do you fight with them?”

The wine has loosened my tongue, my facade of indifference dropping away as I study my husband’s face.

He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Everyone fights.”

“Yes, I suppose,” I say, already bored with his answer. “What sorts of things do you fight about?”

Seth looks uncomfortable as he reaches for his glass. It’s empty, of course, and his head jerks around to look for our server so he can cushion my question with alcohol. My eyes stay glued to his face. I want to know.

“Regular things.”

“Why are you being evasive?” I drum my fingers on the tabletop. I’m aggravated. I rarely ask questions, and when I do, I expect an answer. I expect answers for my compliance. My role isn’t an easy one.

“Look, I’ve had a really hard week. Being with you is a break from all that. I’d rather just enjoy your company instead of drudging up every fight I’ve had with them.”

I feel myself soften. Tucking my hands under the table, I smile at him apologetically. Seth looks relieved. I was being unfair. Why spend our time together talking about his other relationships when we could focus on strengthening our bond? I push Hannah and her bruises from my mind.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Would you like one more drink before we leave?”

Seth orders two more drinks, and after they arrive, he looks at me with what can only be described as solemn guilt.

“What? I know that look. Spit it out.”

He laughs a little and leans over to kiss me on the lips. “You know me so well.” He grins.

I lean back against the firm leather of the booth, waiting for the bad news.

“Actually, I really need to talk to you about something.”

“Okay...”

I watch as he takes another sip of his bourbon, stalling for time, arranging the words in his mind. I imagine that if he had something bad to tell me all along, he’s already rehearsed what he’s going to say. It makes me prickly to think he invited me all the way here just to butter me up for bad news.

“It’s about Monday,” he says.

Something in my belly twists and I feel a wave of panic. He found out I’ve been to see Hannah. My lips are dry. I lick them, already composing the words—the excuses I’m going to give him.

“Monday?”

“Everything with the baby is fine. So far. But I was thinking that it’s a bad idea for you and me to take our vacation this year with the baby due...”

His words drop between us and all I can do is stare at him, dumbfounded. It’s not as bad as I thought, but also just as bad.

“Why?” I blurt. “What difference does it make? We can go before she has it.”

“That’s just it,” Seth says. The waiter comes by and Seth passes him his credit card without looking at the bill. “I’ll need the time off when the baby gets here. I can’t take a vacation. On top of that, things are busy at work. I need to be there.”

I fold my arms across my chest and stare out the window, suddenly not feeling as special and loved as I had hours ago. I feel cast off, abandoned. I am not the one having his baby—she is—and so my needs matter less. Oh my God, he invited me to Portland to soften the blow. This wasn’t a stolen romantic getaway, it was a manipulation: the soft words, the flirting, the nice dinner—the realization stings.

“I’ve sacrificed a lot, Seth...” I want to cringe at the bitterness I hear in my voice. I don’t want to act like a child, but being robbed of my time with him is unbearable.

“I know you have. It hurts me to ask you to do this,” he says.

I balk at his tone. It’s like he’s speaking to a child, one he’s about to discipline.

I look at him in alarm, weighing my urge to lash out and say something that will hurt him. “Ask me? It sounds more like you’re telling me.”

It begins to rain, and a couple dashes from the restaurant and across the street toward the parking garage. I watch their progress and wonder what it’s like to be with a man who wants only you. I didn’t date much before Seth. I was one of those serious students who avoided relationships to focus on my studies. If I had more experience under my belt, maybe I wouldn’t have agreed to the life Seth offered me so easily.

“You know that’s not true.” He reaches out to touch my hand and I pull it away, placing it under the table on my lap. Tears sting my eyes.

“I’d like to leave,” I say.

Seth actually has the audacity to frown at me. “You can’t run away from this. We have to talk about things. That’s how it works in a relationship. You knew when I married her what that would entail. You agreed.”

I am so enraged I stand up, knocking over my empty water glass as I push out of the half-moon booth and rush toward the door. I hear him call my name, but nothing he says could make me stop. I need to be alone, to think about all of this. How dare he lecture me on marriage? His path is the easy one.

SIX

The next morning I’m woken by the sound of the door opening. In my haste to climb into bed, I’d forgotten to hang the Do Not Disturb sign. I hear a tentative “Housekeeping...” and I call out a muffled “Later!” I wait until the door closes again before I roll over in bed and see that I have seven text messages and five missed calls from Seth. If I were to call this much when I didn’t hear from him, I’d look needy and insecure. I turn my phone off without reading the texts and jump out of bed to pack the few things I brought with me. I want to be home. It was a mistake coming here. I am craving the familiarity of my condo, the cold Coke that waits in the fridge. I plan on climbing under the covers and staying there until I have to go back to work. I want to call my mother or Anna and tell them what happened, but then I’d have to tell them the whole truth, and I’m not ready for that. I’m on my way down to the lobby when I think of Hannah and have the sudden urge to see her again. She’s the only one who knows what this is like, the torture of sharing your spouse. I send her a text as I march toward the parking garage, the straps of my duffel digging into my arm. I’d been so distracted last night I don’t remember where I parked my car. I walk up and down the rows of cars, switching my bag back and forth on my arm when it becomes too heavy. When I finally find it and unlock the door, I see a bouquet of lavender roses propped on the front seat, a card propped against the steering wheel. I move them to the passenger side without opening the card and climb in, gunning the engine. I didn’t want his flowers or his Hallmark apologies. I wanted him: his attention, his time, his favor. I am almost to the freeway, having momentarily forgotten about the text I sent to Hannah, when my phone chimes to tell me I have a text. I’d asked her if she was free to grab a late breakfast before I headed out of town. Her response causes my heart to beat wildly.

I’d love to! Meet you at Orson’s in ten? Here’s the address.

I type the address into my phone and make a U-turn. I barely glanced at myself in the mirror before I left this morning. As I wait for a light to change, I pull down the car’s visor and, flipping open the mirror, I study my face. I look pale and washed out, and my eyes are puffy from last night’s crying. I dig in my bag for a lipstick and quickly mop it across my lips.

Orson’s is a hole-in-the-wall breakfast spot with a block-letter sign above the door. There is a golf-ball-size hole in the O with a series of spiderweb cracks around it. I walk inside, the smell of eggs and coffee thick in the air, and look around for an empty table.

The place is packed, filled with the type of people I can’t imagine Hannah and her fine cheekbones being friends with. Mohawks, pink hair, tattoos—one woman has seven piercings in her face alone.

I find a table by a window where I can see the door and toss my purse into the empty seat across from me. Too often I’d been in coffee shops where desperate people try to pilfer your chairs. Hannah walks in ten minutes later, wearing a red dress and glossy black flats. Her hair is pinned back, but wisps of it fall around her face like she was caught in a strong wind.

She looks frazzled as she slides into her seat and pushes the strands behind her ears. “Sorry I’m late. I’d just gotten out of the shower when I got your text.” She pulls off her sunglasses and sets them on the table while she presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

“Headache?” I ask.

She nods. “Caffeine headache. I’ve been trying to cut back, but I think I’ll have one today.”

“I’ll go grab us coffees if you tell me what you want,” I say, standing up. I have the sudden urge to protect her. She nods, looking around.

“Yeah, I suppose we can’t risk losing our table.”

She tells me her order and I walk up to the register and get in line. It’s then that I start sweating. Like, what the hell am I doing? Is this to get back at Seth? No, I tell myself as I reach the front of the line. I’m searching for my own form of community. I need to understand myself, and the only way to do that is to get to know the other woman who has made similar choices. Besides, it isn’t like I could find a polygamy group online, like one of those MOPS meetings mothers attend.

I place our order and carry the number on a stand back to the table. Hannah is chewing on her nails and staring at a coffee stain on the table.

I glance at her arm, to the place where I saw the bruise yesterday. It’s gone from purple to a dim blue.

She sees me looking and covers it with her hand, perfectly manicured fingers wrapping around her arm.

“An accident,” she says.

“Looks like finger marks.” My comment is offhanded, but she looks startled, like I’ve just slapped her. I study her eyes. They’re so perfectly blue they look painted, her lashes flicked up with expertly applied mascara. It’s all too perfect, I think. When things are that perfect, something is wrong.

While we wait, she chats about another renovation she wants to do on the house, but her husband is dragging his feet. I gravitate between liking and hating her as I smile and nod. How ungrateful to live in such a beautiful place and to never be satisfied with it. Wasn’t Seth exhausted by her demands? I imagine he’ll tell me about it soon, ask what I think about the renovation she wants. Seth always confers with me about these things, almost like he’s asking permission. I’d tell him to give her what she wants, of course. It would make me look good. Hannah suddenly changes the subject and asks questions about my condo and how I’ve decorated it. Her interest flatters and confuses me. I’m grateful when our food and drinks arrive. I stare down at my plate, at the omelet that is healthier than one I would have ordered had I been by myself, and have the desperate urge to tell her something personal. “I found out last night that my husband is cheating on me.”

Hannah drops her fork. It clatters onto her plate and then does a flip landing on the floor. We both stare at it.

“What?” she says. Her response is so delayed it’s almost funny.

I shrug. “I’m not sure how to process it. We had a fight last night and I stormed off.”

Hannah shakes her head and bends to pick up her fork. Instead of asking for a new one, she pulls an antibacterial wipe from her handbag and polishes it clean.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “My God, here I am blabbing about... I’m really sorry.”

She sets down her fork and stares at me. “Seriously, that’s terrible. I’d be an absolute mess. How are you even holding up?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I love him.” She nods, like this is answer enough.

She studies me over her plate of egg whites. She’s barely touched her food. I want to tell her to eat, that she has a baby to grow.

“I’m pregnant,” she says.

I feign surprise. I don’t have to try very hard because I’m genuinely shocked that she told me, a complete stranger.

My eyes travel to her belly, flat and firm.

“I’m not very far along,” she admits. “I haven’t told anyone.”

“Your...husband?” I ask. Though I want to say, “Our husband?”

“Yes,” she sighs, “he knows.”

“And...is he...happy?” I already know the answer, of course—Seth was over the fucking moon—but I want to hear about it from Hannah’s mouth. What does my husband’s excitement look like to her?

“He’s happy.”

“You’re saying something without saying it.” I wipe my mouth and stare at her pointedly. My mother can’t stand this side of me; she says I’m too forward, but Hannah doesn’t seem bothered by my statement. She wipes her mouth with a paper napkin and sighs.

“Yes, I suppose I am.” She looks at me with new appreciation. “I like how direct you are.” I bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from smiling.

“So what’s the deal? You have to talk to someone about it, right?” I’m trying to play it cool, but my toes are curled up in my shoes and my leg is bouncing sporadically underneath the table. I feel like a druggie. I need more, I need to hear it all, to understand.

She looks at me through spiky black lashes and presses her lips together.

“He hides my birth control pills.”

I press the back of my hand to my mouth as I choke on the sip of coffee I’ve just taken. She has to be joking. Seth, hiding birth control pills? Seth is the type of guy who gets what he wants without tricks. Or maybe that’s just with me.

“How do you know he hides them?” I ask, setting my coffee cup down. Hannah shifts in her seat, her eyes darting around like she’s waiting for Seth to appear out of the walls.

“He’s joked about it and of course my pills go missing.”

“It’s like when women poke holes in condoms to trap men with pregnancies,” I say, shaking my head. “But why would he want to trap you with a pregnancy?”

Hannah’s mouth pulls into a tight line and she looks away. My breath catches in my throat as my eyes travel to the bruises on her arm.

“You wanted to leave...”

She looks at me but doesn’t say anything. I can almost see the truth in her eyes, pressed behind her rapid blinking. My mind is spinning out of control. It’s inconceivable to me, Seth hurting a woman, Seth hiding birth control pills. I want to ask if she loves him but my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.

“Hannah, you can tell me...”

A woman with dreadlocks and a baby strapped to her chest in one of those hippie sling things walks past our table. Hannah watches her with rapt interest, and I wonder if she’s imagining herself with a baby. I’d done it a thousand times before, imagining the weight of a tiny human in my arms—wondering what it would feel like to know you made something so small and perfect. I stare at her beautiful face. Hannah is not who she seems: the perfect house, the perfect face, the perfect outfit...and then those bruises. I wanted to know her, understand her, but every second spent with her makes me more confused. A few hours ago I was furious at Seth, and now, as I sit across from my husband’s other wife, my anger transfers to her. I feel absolutely bipolar in my emotions—one minute distrusting one, the next the other. Why would she have agreed to all of this if not to have a child with him? That’s why...that’s why he added a wife. Because I couldn’t give him a child.

“Did he make that bruise on your arm?” I lean in, studying her face for signs of a lie before she’s even answered me.

“It’s complicated,” she says. “He didn’t mean it. We were fighting and I walked away. He grabbed my arm. I bruise easily...” she offers weakly.

“That’s not okay.”

Hannah looks put off, like she’d rather be anywhere else but here. She glances longingly toward the door; I lay a hand on her arm and stare her right in the eye.

“Has he hit you before?” My question is loaded. I’m not just asking Hannah Ovark if her husband hits her, I’m asking if my husband hits her.

“No! I mean, he doesn’t hit me. Look, you have it all wrong.”

I’m about to ask her exactly how I have it all wrong when someone bumps into our table. I lean out of the way, but it’s too late, a cup tilts toward me, emptying its contents over my clothes. The girl who’d been holding the cup widens her eyes, her mouth dropping open.

“Shit,” she says, jumping back. “I’m so sorry. It’s iced, thank God it’s iced.”

I grab my purse, moving it out of the way as a puddle of brown crawls across the table. Hannah is shoving napkins at me, pulling them one by one from the holder. I look at her helplessly as I dab at my pants. “I have to go,” I say.

“I know.” She nods like she understands. “Thanks for the breakfast,” she says. “It was nice to talk to someone. I don’t get to do that very often.”

I smile weakly at her and think of the woman with the dreadlocks and the baby. She’s lying. There’s something off about Hannah Ovark and I’m going to find out what it is.

SEVEN

When Seth calls a few days later I am home, snuggled up under a blanket on the couch. I’ve been screening his calls for days, sending him to voice mail on the first ring. I’m mellow after two glasses of wine and so I answer. I’ve been going over what Hannah said, replaying her words over and over until I want to cry from frustration. He says hello first; his voice sounds tired but hopeful.

“Hi,” I breathe into the phone. I hold the device to my ear with one hand, and with the other I trace the patterns of a throw pillow on my lap.

“I’m sorry,” he says right away. “I’m so sorry.” He sounds it.

“I know...” My anger dissolving, I reach over for the remote and mute the mindless fodder I was watching. Reality TV is the ultimate distraction from a broken heart.

“I spoke to Hannah,” he says. “That’s Monday’s name.”

I hold my breath, pushing myself into a sitting position and tossing the pillow onto the floor. Did he really just tell me her name? It feels like a triumph, Seth trusting me with something he’s never shared. I am fairly certain neither of the other wives knows my name. And then it hits me: Hannah holds all the power. She is the pregnant wife. I suddenly feel claustrophobic, my prior softness replaced with nerves. If Hannah decided that it was important for Seth to stay with her instead of going on vacation with me, that’s exactly what he would do. I may be Seth’s legal wife, but this baby shifted me to the position of middle child, and everyone knows that the middle child is the forgotten one. I clear my throat, determined to act normal, despite what I am feeling.

“What did she say?” My heart is pounding and my nails find their way to my mouth where my teeth begin their ripping assault.

There’s a pause on his end. “I told her that it was important for me to take the trip,” he says. “You’re right. I can’t take time away from you. It isn’t fair.”

I should be nice, play the role of the good wife, but the words bubble from my lips before I can pull them back.

“I don’t want your charity. I want you to want to take a trip with me.”

“I do. I’m doing my best here, baby.”

“Don’t call me that, Seth.”

There’s a long pause on his end, followed by a sigh. “All right. What do you want me to say?”

Annoyance blooms in my chest.

What do I want him to say? That he chooses me? That he only wants me? That’s never going to happen. It’s not what I signed up for.

“I don’t want to fight,” he says. “I just called to tell you that I’m figuring it out. And I love you.”

I wonder if he made me the bad guy, told her I was kicking up a fuss. Why would I even care what Hannah thinks of me? But I do care what Hannah thinks, even if she doesn’t know who I am. Well, she does know, doesn’t she? I think. She just doesn’t know she knows, you fuck.

“I told her that it was important I go,” he tells me.

That sounds like Seth actually. Never wanting to be the bad guy. He needs to please and be pleased. He makes love to me in the same way, alternating between a tender reverence and wild grip of fingers and thrusts until I sound off like a porn star.

Suddenly, his voice changes and I press the phone closer to my ear. “I didn’t know if you still wanted me there...on Thursday...”

I swipe away the guilt I’m feeling for being so harsh and consider my feelings. Do I want him here? Am I ready to see him? I could just outright tell him what I did and ask for an explanation. But he could deny the whole thing, and then I’d never get to talk to Hannah again. He’d tell her who I was and she’d feel betrayed by what I’d done. There’s a huge chance that I am blowing all of this out of proportion, and then I’d look like a pathetic idiot to the only person in the world I am close to.

“You can come,” I say softly. Because if he doesn’t, he’ll go to one of them. I may be angry with him, but I am still a competitive woman.

“Okay,” is all he says in return.

We hang up with barely more than an I love you from Seth. Who I know genuinely does love me. But I don’t say it back. I want to make him suffer. He needs to know that there are no lies in a marriage—no matter how many women you’re married to—which makes the truth even more complicated. But still...

I don’t know what to do. I grow sour with each day, like curdled milk left in the heat. When Thursday arrives, in an act of defiance I decide not to make dinner. I’m not going to cook for him, put on a show like everything is all right. It isn’t. I don’t do my hair or put one of my usually sexy dresses on, either. At the last minute I spray some perfume on my wrists and at the neckline of my shirt. That was for me, I tell myself. Not him. When Seth walks through the door, I am sitting on the couch in sweatpants, my hair rolled into a bun, eating ramen noodles and watching Bravo. He pauses in the doorway to the living room, surveying my state with a look of amusement. I have a noodle hanging out of my mouth, my lips cupped around it.

“Hi,” he says. He’s wearing a cardigan pushed up to his elbows and a light blue V-neck T-shirt. His hands are stuffed into his jean pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Sheepish. How charming.

Normally, I’d be on my feet by now, rushing toward him so that I could be wrapped in his arms, so relieved that I could finally touch him. This time I stay seated, and the only acknowledgment I give him in greeting is a slight raise of my eyebrows as I suck the lone noodle into my mouth. It slaps my cheek on the way in and I feel a spray of the salty chicken water hit my eyeball.

I watch as he ambles into the living room and sits across from me on one of the floral chairs we chose together: deep emerald green with creamy gardenias floating across the fabric. “Almost like they’re caught on the wind,” he’d said when he first saw it in the store. I’d bought it just because of his description.

“There’s ramen in the pantry,” I say cheerfully. “Chicken and beef.” I wait for a startled reaction, but he doesn’t have one. This is the first Thursday in our marriage that I have not cooked an elaborate meal.

He nods, hands clasped between his knees now. I marvel at the change. All of a sudden, it’s like he doesn’t belong here and I do. He’s lost his power and I sort of like it. I lift the bowl of broth to my lips and drink it down, smacking my lips when I’m done. Delicious. I forgot how good a brick of noodles could be. Oh my God, I’m so lonely.

“So,” I say. I’m hoping to prompt Seth into saying whatever he’s holding behind his teeth. By the strained look on his face, he appears to be choking on all of his unsaid bits. I can’t believe I even entertained the thought that this man could rough up a woman. I study his face, his weak chin and too-pretty nose. It’s strange how perception is altered by bitterness. I’ve never thought his chin weak before, never considered his nose too pretty. The man whose face I’ve always loved and cradled between my palms suddenly looks weak and pathetic, transformed by my flip-flopping opinion of him.

I flip through the channels, not really seeing what’s on the screen. I don’t want to look at him for fear he will be able to see in my eyes the ugly things I’m feeling.

“I thought I’d be good at this,” he says. I spare him a glance before I keep flicking.

“Good at what?”

“Loving more than one woman.”

The laugh that bursts from between my lips is sharp and ugly.

Seth looks at me, chagrined, and I feel a stab of guilt.

“Who can be good at something like that?” I ask, shaking my head. “God, Seth. Marriage to one person is hard enough. You’re right about one thing,” I say, setting the remote down and turning my full attention on him. “I’m disappointed. I feel betrayed. I’m...jealous. Someone else is having your baby and it’s not me.”

The most I’ve said about our situation. I immediately want to reel the words back in, swallow them down. I sound so jaded. It’s not a side of myself I’ve ever let Seth see. Men prefer the purrings of a confident, secure woman—that’s what the books say. That’s what Seth said about me in the first months of our dating: “I like that you’re not threatened by anything. You’re you no matter who else is in the room...” It isn’t that way now, is it? Two other women are in the room, and I notice them every minute of every day. I look around my small living room, my eyes touching the knickknacks and art that Seth and I chose together: a painting of an English seaside, a driftwood bowl that we found in Port Townsend in our first year of marriage, a pile of coffee table books that I swore I needed but have never paged through. All the things that comprise our lives, and yet none are filled with memories, or represent a joining of lives, like a baby would. He shares that bond with someone else. I suddenly feel depressed. Our existence together is a shallow one. If not for children, what is there? Sex? Companionship? Is anything more important than bringing life into the world? I reach up absently to lay a hand on my womb. Forever empty.

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