The Wives(24)
“Women can be very conniving, if you know what I mean.” She gives me a look that says I should know what she means. But I’ve never had many friends, just Anna, really, and my mother and sister. But yeah, if you pay attention to TV and movies, they paint women in an untrustworthy light.
“I guess so,” I say.
“Well, I wouldn’t put anything past them. Or myself for that matter. I know what I’m capable of.”
Our heads bent together, I try to picture cheerful, plump Debbie as the conniving type she’s referencing and can’t.
Debbie looks around to make sure no one can overhear us, and then she leans so close to me I can smell the cherry blossom shower gel she uses.
“I stole him from my best friend.”
“Bill?” I ask, confused.
Bill has a potbelly that sits on top of two spindly legs and only a horseshoe pattern of hair left on his head. It’s hard to believe he ever needed stealing.
“And you still, um...look at her profile?”
“Of course.” Debbie pulls a stick of gum from her pocket and offers me half. I shake my head and she folds the stick onto her tongue in a perfect half.
“Why?”
“Because women don’t ever stop wanting what they want. They see another man who’s considerate and handsome, and it reminds them of what they’re missing in their own lives.”
There is a bitter taste in my mouth. I wish I’d taken the half stick of gum she’d offered. If Debbie is worried about Bill’s exes twenty years past, how much should I be worrying about the women my husband fucks on the regular?
Just then, her pager buzzes, and she shoots me a wry look as she unclips it from her hip and glances at the screen.
“Have to run, doll. Talk later.”
I watch her go, the wide gait of her steps as her white Reeboks squeak down the hall. Before she reaches the junction near the elevators, she turns around and faces me. Her arms pump at her sides while she walks backward.
“It’s even better when you spy on them in person, by the way.” She winks and then she’s gone.
Nosy, annoying, no-personal-space Debbie just might be my new best friend. I hear a ping on my phone. When I look down, a notification has appeared at the top of the screen. It’s from the dating app I downloaded. Regina has sent you a message.
ELEVEN
The front door swings open and Seth walks in, carrying two large bags of takeout. Ah, it’s Thursday. I’d forgotten. Lately, all I think about is my husband’s wives. Somewhere along the way, Seth has been replaced. I give him half a smile. We both know it’s forced. A bouquet of white roses rests in the crook of his arm. Roses for no reason, or roses because he sent me a text meant for one of the others? Normally, I’d rush over to relieve him of what he’s carrying, but this time I stay where I am. He never even attempted to explain his mistaken text. And I waited all week for something...anything. My mood is dour—and I don’t plan on faking a good mood for his sake.
I picked some up. I’ll make an excuse and get out of it. Love you.
The lines on his face are relaxed, his eyes alert. I fold a towel and place it carefully on the put-away pile as I watch him kick the door closed and come sauntering down the hallway toward me. Everything about his demeanor bothers me. He’s not playing the part of the contrite husband.
“For you,” he says, handing over the flowers.
I stand awkwardly with them in my hand for a few seconds, and then set them aside to deal with later. I’m a mess again—hair loose and air-dried to waves. I’m wearing my favorite yoga pants, the ones with the hole in the right leg. I brush hair out of my eyes as he holds up the takeout bags and shakes them at me.
“Dinner,” he declares.
The smile he’s wearing is almost contagious, except I don’t feel like smiling. I wonder if he’s pleased with himself for picking up dinner, or if he has good news. It’s a risk grabbing takeout without knowing if I cooked, but I suppose he suspects I am on strike.
“Why are you so happy?” I fold my last towel and pick up the pile to carry to the towel closet. Seth smacks my butt as I move past him. I think about shooting him a death glare, but I keep my head stiffly pointed forward. Why does his effort bother me now? I would have reveled in this attention a few weeks ago.
“Can’t a man be happy to come home to his girl?” Can’t a man be happy to come home to just one girl?
I press my lips together to keep from actually saying those words and busy myself arranging the towels in the linen closet.
When I’m finished with the laundry, we sit down at the kitchen bar to eat. I’ve said no more than a few words since he walked through the door, though he hasn’t seemed to notice. Or perhaps he’s ignoring my silence as a way to pretend everything is fine. I watch as he unloads grease-stained containers onto the counter, glancing at me every few minutes to gauge my reaction.
The smell of garlic and ginger wafts from the boxes and my stomach grumbles. He stands up to get plates but I wave him back.
“No need,” I say, leaning forward and pulling a container of garlic chicken toward me. Flipping open the lid I pinch a piece of chicken between my chopsticks, watching him over the rim of the box as I chew. He eyes my UGGs, which are propped up on the counter next to the food, bewildered amusement on his face.