My Lovely Wife(8)

“I envy you,” Trista says to me. “I would love to have your job and be outside all day. I love playing tennis.”

Andy laughs. His cheeks are red. “But you work in an art gallery. It’s practically the same thing.”

“Being outside all day and working outside all day are two different things,” I say. “I’d love to sit around on the beach all day, doing nothing.”

Trista scrunches up her pert nose. “I think that would be boring, just lying around like that. I’d rather be doing something.”

I want to tell her that taking a tennis lesson and teaching them are two different things. At work, the great outdoors is the last thing on my mind. Most of my time is spent trying to teach tennis to people who would rather be on their phone, watching TV, getting drunk, or eating. I don’t need even one finger to count the number of people who really want to play tennis, much less exercise. Trista is one of them. She doesn’t really love tennis; she loves to look good.

But I keep my mouth shut, because that’s what friends do. We don’t point out each other’s faults unless asked.

The talk shifts to Andy’s work, and I tune it out, catching only key words, because I am distracted by the sound of silverware. Every time Millicent cuts a piece of grilled chicken, I think about her killing Lindsay.

“Attention,” Andy says. “That’s the only thing software companies care about. How can we get your attention, and how can we keep it? How can we make you sit in front of your computer all day?”

I roll my eyes. When Andy drinks, he tends to pontificate. Or lecture.

“Come on,” he says. “Answer the question. What keeps you in front of the computer?”

“Cat videos,” I say.

Trista giggles.

“Don’t be a dick,” Andy says.

“Sex,” Millicent says. “It has to be either sex or violence.”

“Or both,” I say.

“Actually, it doesn’t have to contain sex,” says Andy. “Not actual sex. What’s necessary is the promise of sex. Or violence. Or both. And a story line—you have to have a story line. Doesn’t matter if it’s real or fake or who’s telling it. You just need people to care what happens next.”

“And how do you do that?” Millicent asks.

He smiles and draws an invisible circle with his index finger. “Sex and violence.”

“That goes for everything, though. Even the news is built on sex and violence,” I say.

“The whole world turns on sex and violence,” says Andy. He draws the circle with his finger again and turns to me. “You know that—you’re from here.”

“I do know.” Officially, the Oaks is one of the safest communities in the state. That’s because all the violence is behind closed doors.

“I know that, too,” Trista says to her husband. “Woodview isn’t that different.”

It is, but Andy doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans over and gives his wife a peck on the lips. As their lips touch, she touches his cheek with her palm.

I am jealous.

Jealous of their simple conversations. Jealous of their heavy drinking. Jealous of their simple foreplay and the sex they will have tonight.

“I think we all get it,” I say.

Andy winks at me. I glance over at Millicent, who is staring at her food. She thinks public displays of affection are distasteful.

When the check arrives, both Millicent and Trista leave the table and go to the restroom. Andy grabs the check before I can.

“Don’t bother protesting. I got it,” he says, looking over the bill. “You guys are cheap dates anyway. No alcohol.”

I shrug. “So we don’t drink much.”

Andy shakes his head and smiles.

“What?” I say.

“If I had known you were going to end up such a boring family man, I would’ve made you stay in Cambodia a lot longer.”

I roll my eyes. “Now you’re the one being a dick,” I say.

“That’s what I’m here for.”

Before I can respond, our wives return to the table and we stop talking about drinking. And about the check.

The four of us walk out together and say our goodbyes in the parking lot. Trista says she will see me at her next lesson. Andy says he’ll start soon. Trista is behind him rolling her eyes and smiling. They drive off, leaving Millicent and I alone. We have two cars, because we met at the restaurant.

She turns to me. Under the streetlights, she looks as old as I’ve ever seen her. “You okay?” she says.

I shrug. “I’m okay.” I do not have any other option.

“You worry too much,” she says, staring out over the sea of cars. “Everything is fine.”

“I hope so.”

“Trust me.” Millicent reaches out and slips her hand into mine. Squeezes it.

I nod and get into my car, but I don’t go straight home. Instead, I drive by the Lancaster Hotel.

Naomi is behind the front desk. Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders, and although I can’t see the freckles on her nose, I think I can. I am relieved to see her, to know that she is still working behind the front desk and probably still engaging in her extracurricular activities. There is no reason for me to think anything has happened to her, because we have agreed to wait. Checking on Naomi is irrational, but I do it anyway.