The Wives. Tarryn Fisher

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.”