My Lovely Wife(32)

“Yes.”

“They won’t see anything else.”

Millicent touches me on the nose. “Because of you.”

“Stop.”

“It’s true.”

I shake my head. “We have to stop gloating.”

“Tomorrow.”



* * *



? ? ?

The next few days are as good as it ever was. The way Millicent smiles at me lifts my heart. I even stand up straighter.

She feels it, too. The day after the party, she sends me a text signed Penny. It is the only nickname I ever had for her. I haven’t used it in years.

I first came up with it while we were on a date, before we were officially a couple but after we had slept together. Neither of us had much money, so many of our dates were simple. We took long walks, went to bargain matinees, and took advantage of happy hour buffets. Occasionally, we got more creative. On this particular night, we drove twenty miles to eat cheap pizza and play video games at an old-fashioned arcade. I beat her at the sports games, but she kicked my ass in anything involving guns.

Across the street from the arcade, there was a small park and a fountain. She took out a penny, made a wish, and tossed it in. We watched it sink to the bottom, settling on top of so many others. The water was so clear I could still see the words at the bottom of the coin.

One Cent.

“That’s what I should call you,” I said. “Penny.”

“Penny?”

“Millicent.”

“Oh god.”

“Plus you have red hair,” I said.

“Penny? Are you serious?”

I smiled. “Penny.”

She shook her head at me.

I was in love, fully and undoubtedly, but I hadn’t said the words out loud. Instead, I called her Penny. Eventually, we said the real words and I stopped calling her Penny. Now, she has brought it back, and I don’t want to let it go.





Twenty-one




Monday the 9th, Annabelle is at work. The day is beautiful—plenty of sunshine but not too hot. Almost brisk. Annabelle has parked her car at the end of the block and walks down the street, scanning license plates and checking meters. Her short hair sticks out from under the cap she wears to shade her eyes. She wears one earbud in her right ear, the white cord snaking down her chest, through her shirt, and into the right front pocket of her pants. Her blue uniform is decidedly unisex.

I watch from down the block, waiting. When she reaches the green car, she starts punching the buttons on her handheld scanner.

I sprint down the block, stopping a few feet away from her. I hold up my hands as if telling her to wait.

Annabelle looks at me like I’m crazy.

I pull out my phone, type, and hand it to her.

Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you! My name is Tobias. I am deaf.

She reads it. Her shoulders relax, and she nods.

I point to the car and then to me.

She points to the expired meter.

I clasp my hands together below my chin, as if I’m begging. Or praying.

She laughs. Annabelle has a nice laugh.

I smile, showing her my dimples.

Anabelle wags her finger at me.

I hand her my phone.

Promise I’ll never do it again …

She sighs.

I’ve won. The green car does not get a ticket.

It’s not even my car.

I am not even sure why I spoke to Annabelle. This time, I didn’t have to; I don’t need to know more about her life or where she lives or who might be waiting for her. I already have the answers, but I did it anyway. All part of my process for choosing.

On Wednesday, I will see her again. She doesn’t know it.



* * *



? ? ?

Owen’s picture is everywhere. The computer experts have aged him up, theorizing about what he looks like now. They even consider how he might disguise himself. I am bombarded by these pictures; they are all over the news, in the paper, on the Internet. Flyers are taped to telephone poles. Owen with a beard, a mustache, dark hair, bald, fat, and thin. Owen with long hair and short, sunglasses and contacts, with sideburns and a goatee. Owen looked like everyman and no man.

I did this.

Well, Millicent did it. Or started it. But I did it, too.

I have not achieved much—certainly nothing out of the ordinary—but because of me, everyone is looking for Owen Oliver Riley.

I always wanted to be more than above average.

First, it was tennis. My father played, my mother pretended to, and at the age of seven I hit my first tennis ball. It was the first sport I was interested in, so they hired a coach, bought me my first racket, and sent me on my way. Within a few years, I was the best young player at the club. I still didn’t get their attention, not the way I wanted, but that only made me better. I had no idea how much anger I had until I hit that little yellow ball.

I wasn’t average then, wasn’t a disappointment to anyone but my parents. I was better than everyone else, right up until I wasn’t. Then I didn’t know how to be average anymore, so I went overseas, away from my parents, in search of a place where I could be better than average, better than a disappointment. With Millicent, I am.

It’s terrible to say, but my life has been so much better since my parents died.