Page 89 of Happy Wife

By eleven, I had expected or maybe just hoped that Will would call. But he hadn’t, and I still didn’t want to go home. To makematters worse, a storm had moved in and decided to sit right on top of the city with fat, splashing drops of rain that fell so fast I could barely see between swipes of my windshield wipers. It got so bad that I didn’t spot the knocked-over cone alerting drivers to the pothole in the road, and as my tire hit it, I knew I’d blown it. I pulled over and put my head on the steering wheel, letting the tears fall.

Suddenly, the storm picked up enough that I started feeling like I needed to get off the road. I wiped my eyes, trying to focus on my phone screen, giving up a few times as I tilted my head up and let the tears stream down the sides of my face. Finally, I managed to type:

11:13p.m.

I blew a tire. Can you come get me?

Ten minutes later, Marcus rolled up and got out of his car with a large golf umbrella.

“There’s no way we’ll be able to get this changed right now,” he said. “The storm is supposed to pass in a while. We’ll come back. We can go to my house, I’m just down the way.”

I probably should’ve argued that. But I was spent and so soaked to the bone that his house sounded like the perfect place to wait for the rain to let up.

—

He lived in a dark blue bungalow behind Trismen Park. The earthy smell of the rain and a sticky humidity washed over me when Marcus helped me out of his car and under the umbrella. We hurried through his front door as a few pops of lightning lit up the sky.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, acutely aware of the scene that I was causing. It was after eleven o’clock at night and I was in Marcus’s living room with puffy eyes and a rain-soaked designer dress. And I couldn’t go home because my husband threw a glass at me. Near me? What even was that?

Welcome to rock bottom, Nora.

His place had an open-concept layout, so I could see through to the kitchen, outfitted with everything a chef could want, including an island large enough to fit six stools for entertaining.The space was like his restaurant—warm, cozy, with touches of a bohemian influence that reminded me of the beach. From the slouchy linen sectional couch where we sat, I could see white lights strung over a swimming pool in his backyard, and beyond the pool, there was a little greenhouse with surfboards racked against one wall.

Marcus looked me over carefully like he wasn’t sure what to make of my late-night appearance, but he didn’t ask about it. He just handed me a napkin and I did my best to clean up my eye makeup without a mirror.

“Can I make you some tea? You want a glass of wine?” he offered.

“Tea would be nice,” I said in a voice that sounded as small and defeated as I felt. The truth was I was starving. I had been so wrapped up in cooking that I had forgotten to eat lunch, and of course I never made it to dinner. Maybe the hot water would take the edge off my hunger pangs.

He headed for the kitchen, and I stood up to follow him. My eye caught a gallery wall of photos in the corner of the living room. Candid snapshots from different chapters of his life. I took in the pictures as he held the gas stove control knob and it let out that familiar click, click, click to ignite under a teakettle.

It’s weird, trying to piece together someone’s history through a series of photos, but as I looked over the wall, I told myself stories from the framed scenes. Marcus had backpacked through Europe, scuba-dived around coral reefs, and surfed in Australia. He had jumped off the back of a sailboat somewhere that looked a lot like Greece. He had loved a black Lab and his parents. There were friends or siblings—I couldn’t tell which—who had accompanied him on all of these adventures. He lived life with open arms and a friendly smile, and I felt a selfish twinge of jealousy for how light and cheerful it all seemed to be.

This is how life turns out for people with stable suburban parents. They get a zillion options and even a few do-overs, because they always know they will have a safe place to land if things go sideways.

“You okay, Nora?” Marcus asked as he looked over from the stove.

Considering I was so clearly not okay, I understood there was no point in downplaying the situation.

“Will and I got into a fight,” I admitted. “I just need some space.”

Concern shaded Marcus’s face. “What happened?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Everything. Death by a thousand cuts.”

As I said it, I pictured a slowly assembled unlit pile of kindling. Every few days, Will would be late or inconsiderate. Or he’d give another nonanswer or allude to some stress I couldn’t possibly understand. And I’d gather my hurt feelings into a little pile, like stacking up twigs for a fire. Tonight, we’d tossed a lit match into my careful collection of sticks—my pile of swallowed feelings and repressed loneliness—and they’d ignited like a bonfire.

“It was bad,” I said. “We were both shouting, and Will threw a glass. And I feel so stupid for how out of hand it got. I feel so stupid for coming over here and bothering you. But I didn’t want Este to know.”

There was so much more I wanted to say, but I didn’t because it wasn’t Marcus’s problem to solve. And I think deep down I knew that Will would be mad that I was airing our dirty laundry. And the more I turned it all over in my mind, the more I spiraled.

Am I stupid for getting married so fast? For thinking I could just live in a world like this—Will’s world? “Just add a rich husband” for a fantasy life.

“Nora, did I lose you?”

I snapped out of it to see Marcus looking at me quizzically.

“Sorry.”

---