The Wife Between Us(36)

Nellie smoothed out the soft handkerchief, winding it through her fingers. She wished her father could have met Richard. Her dad would have approved, she was certain. “You done good,” he would have said. “You done good.”

She touched the handkerchief to her cheek, then put it back in the pouch.

She checked the clock on the kitchen stove. The dry cleaner would open at eight; graduation was at nine. If she left right now, she’d have just enough time to pick up the flowered dress, change, and make it to school to set up.


Nellie leaned against the bar, waiting for Chris to finish making the dirty martinis destined for Table 31, a group of lawyers celebrating a birthday. She fidgeted with the new bracelet on her wrist. The beads were thick and bright, fastened with a clumsy knot. Jonah had given it to her at graduation.

It was her table’s third round, and it was almost six—the time she’d planned to leave. Nellie hadn’t told Richard she was covering Josie’s shift and couldn’t be late to meet Maureen.

It had been slow at the restaurant initially. She’d chatted with a white-haired couple visiting from Ohio, recommending a great bagel place and suggesting they check out a new exhibit at the Met. They’d pulled out pictures of their five grandchildren and mentioned that the youngest was having trouble learning to read, so Nellie jotted down a list of books that might help.

“You’re a doll,” the woman had said, tucking the sheet of paper into her purse. Nellie had noticed the gold band on her left hand and wondered how it would feel, decades from now, to have photographs of her own grandchildren to show to new acquaintances. By then her engagement ring would surely feel as if it were a part of her, ingrained into her very skin, rather than the weighty, new object on her finger.

But toward the end of her shift, the restaurant was full of clusters of twenty-and thirtysomethings.

“Can you close out my tables?” Nellie asked Jim, another waiter, as he passed by the bar.

“How many do you have left?”

“Four. They don’t want to eat, they’re just parking.”

“Damn, I’m in the weeds right now. Give me a few?”

She looked at her watch again. She’d been hoping to get home to take a shower and put on her black eyelet dress. She always smelled like french fries when she left Gibson’s. But now she’d have to change back into the flowered sundress she’d worn for graduation.

She was about to lift up the tray of dirty martinis destined for the lawyers when someone draped an arm over her shoulders. She turned to see a tall guy who’d probably just turned twenty-one crowding in next to her. He was accompanied by a few friends, who emanated the rowdy energy of athletes before a big game. Normally groups of guys were her favorite customers; unlike women, they never asked for separate checks, and they tipped her well.

“How do we get in your section?” The guy was wearing a Sigma Chi T-shirt, the Greek letters close to her face.

She wrenched her eyes away. “Sorry, but I’m leaving in a few minutes.” She ducked out from beneath his arm.

As she grabbed the drinks and spun away, she heard one of the guys say, “If I can’t get in her section, how do I get in her pants?”

She fumbled the tray and it flipped, soaking her in gin and olive juice. Glasses shattered against the floor, and the guys burst into applause.

“Damn it!” Nellie cried, wiping her face with her sleeve.

“Wet T-shirt contest!” one of the guys hooted.

“Settle down, boys,” Jim said to the guys. “You okay? I was just coming to say I could cover for you.”

“I’m fine.” A busboy approached with a broom as she hurried to the back office, holding her soaked shirt away from her chest. She grabbed her gym bag and went into the bathroom, peeling off her clothes and mopping her skin with a handful of paper towels. She wet another paper towel and rubbed herself down as best she could, then reached into her bag for her flowered dress. It was a little rumpled, but at least it was clean.

She stared at her image in the mirror, not seeing her flushed cheeks or messy hair.

She saw herself at the age of twenty-one, waking up in the sorority house the morning after everything had changed: her throat raw from crying, her body shivering despite her warm pajamas and quilt.

She exited the bathroom, planning to cut a wide berth around those assholes.

They were clustered in a circle by the bar, holding bottles of beer, laughing raucously.

“Aw, we didn’t want to make you leave,” one of the guys said. “Kiss and make up?” He held out his arms. His back was to the bar, as were the other guys’—probably so they could ogle the women in the room.

Nellie glared at him, wanting to throw a drink in his face. Why not? It wasn’t as if she’d get fired.

But as she moved closer, she noticed something on the bar, just behind him. “Sure,” she said sweetly. “I’ll give you a hug.”

Nellie plopped her gym bag on the bar, then leaned in and endured the feel of his body pressing against hers.

“Have a fun night, boys,” she said, picking up her things.

She quickly hailed a cab. Once she was ensconced in the back, she opened the slim leather check holder she’d scooped up when she took her gym bag off the bar. The one with the edge of the credit card poking out of the top.

A block later, when the cab had stopped at a red light, she casually dropped it out the window, into a busy intersection.