The Wives. Tarryn Fisher

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.”