Dear Wife(3)

But the point is, Sabine’s job, which began as a fun little way to provide some extra income, is now a necessity.

My cell phone buzzes against my hip, and I slow to a stop on the trail. I check the screen, and my gut burns with irritation when I see it’s not Sabine but her sister. I pick up, my breath coming in sharp, sweat-humid puffs.

“Hello, Ingrid.”

My greeting is cool and formal, because my relationship with Ingrid is cool and formal. All those things I admire about my wife—her golden chestnut hair, her thin thighs and tiny waist, the way her skin smells of vanilla and sugar—are glaring deficiencies in her twin. Ingrid is shorter, sturdier, less polished. The wallflower to Sabine’s prom queen. The heifer to her blue-ribbon cow. Ingrid has never resented Sabine for being the prettier sister, but she sure as hell blames the rest of us for noticing.

“I’m trying to reach Sabine,” Ingrid says, her Midwestern twang testy with hurry. “Have you talked to her today?”

A speedboat roars by on the river, and I wait for it to pass.

“I’m fine, Ingrid, thank you. And yes, though it was a quick conversation because I’ve been in Florida all week for a conference. I just got home, and she’s got a showing. Have you tried her cell?”

Ingrid makes a sound low in her throat, the kind of sound that comes right before an eye roll. “Of course I’ve tried her cell, at least a million times. When’s the last time you talked to her?”

“About an hour ago.” The lie is instant and automatic. Ingrid might already know I hung up on her sister this morning and she might not, but one thing is certain: she’s not going to hear it from me. “Sabine said she’d be home by nine, so you might want to try her then. Either way, I’ll make sure to tell her you called.”

And with that I hit End, dial up the music on my headphones to deafening and take off running into the setting sun.



BETH

The District at River Bend is an uninspired apartment community on the banks of Tulsa’s Arkansas River, the kind that’s generically appealing and instantly familiar. Tan stone, beige siding, indistinguishable buildings of three and four stories clustered around an amoeba-shaped pool. There are a million complexes like it, in a million cities and towns across America, which is exactly why I chose this one.

I pull into an empty spot by the main building, grab my bag—along with the clothes on my back, my only earthly possessions—and head to the door.

People barely out of college are scattered around the massive indoor space, clutching paper coffee cups or ticking away on their MacBooks. Everybody ignores me, which is an unexpected but welcome development. I make a mental note that a complex like this one would be a good place to hide. In the land of self-absorbed millennials, anybody over thirty might as well be invisible.

I spot a sign for the leasing office and head down the hallway.

The woman perched behind the sleek glass desk is one of them. Young. Blonde. Pretty. The kind with a carefully curated Instagram feed of duck-face selfies and hand-on-hip glamour shots. I pause at the edge of her desk, and she looks up with a blinding smile.

“Hi, there. Are you looking for a home in the premier apartment community in Tulsa? Because if so, you’ve come to the right place.”

Good Lord. Her Midwestern drawl, her Kardashian whine, her unnaturally white teeth. This girl can’t be for real.

“Um, right. So I was looking at the one-bedroom units on your website and—”

“Omigosh! Then this is your lucky day. I literally just learned there’s a Vogue unit available starting next week. How does eight hundred square feet and a balcony overlooking the pool sound?”

I hike my bag higher on a shoulder. “Sounds great, but I was hoping to find something that’s available a little sooner.”

“Like, how much sooner?”

“Like, immediately.”

Her collegiate smile falls off her face. “Oh. Well, I have a couple of one-bedroom units available now, but they’re all smaller, and they don’t offer that same stunning view.”

I shrug. “I’m okay with that.”

She motions to one of the upholstered chairs behind me. “Then have a seat, and I’ll see about getting you into one of our Alpha units. When were you thinking of moving in?”

I sink onto the chair, dragging my bag into my lap. “Today, if possible.”

Her eyes go wide, and she shakes her head. “It’s not. Possible, I mean. The application process takes a good twenty-four hours, at least.”

My heart gives an ominous thud. “Application process?”

I know about the application process. I’ve already scoured the website, and know exactly what it takes to get into this place. I also know that this is where things can get sticky.

The woman nods. “I’ll need two month’s worth of pay stubs, either that or proof of salary on your bank statements, a government-issued ID like a driver’s license or passport, and your social security number. The background check is pretty standard, but it takes a day or two depending on what time of day I submit.”

I have all the items she requested, right here in an envelope in my bag, but as soon as this woman plugs them into her computer, one little click of her mouse will propel all my information into the ether. Background checks mean paper trails, clues, visibility. Once you spot me in the system, and you will, I’ll have only a few precious hours before you show up here, looking for me.