The tink of metal and then the zzzweeep of his belt. He doesn’t undress—there’s just the muted sound of his pants falling to his ankles.
After, I warm our dinner in the microwave, wrapped in my robe. There is a throbbing between my legs, a trickle of semen on my thigh; I am sore in the best possible way. I carry his plate to where he is lying shirtless on the couch, one arm thrown over his head—an image of exhaustion. I cannot remove the grin from my lips, though I try. It’s a break in my usual facade, this grinning like a schoolgirl.
“You’re beautiful,” he says when he sees me. His voice is gruff like it always is postsex. “You felt so good.” He reaches up to rub my thigh as he takes his plate. “Do you remember that vacation we talked about taking? Where do you want to go?” This is the essence of postcoital conversation with Seth: he likes to talk about the future after he comes.
Do I remember? Of course I remember. I rearrange my face so that it looks surprised.
He’s been promising a vacation for a year. Just the two of us.
My heart beats faster. I’ve been waiting for this. I didn’t want to push it since he’s been so busy, but here it is—my year. I’ve imagined all the places we can go. I’ve narrowed it down to a beach. White sands and lapis lazuli water, long walks along the water’s edge holding hands in public. In public.
“I was thinking somewhere warm,” I say. I don’t make eye contact—I don’t want him to see how eager I am to have him to myself. I am needy, and jealous, and petty. I let my robe fall open as I bend to set his wine on the coffee table. He reaches inside and cups my breast like I knew he would. He is predictable in some ways.
“Turks and Caicos?” he suggests. “Trinidad?”
Yes and yes!
Lowering myself into the armchair that faces the sofa, I cross my legs so that my robe slips open and reveals my thigh.
“You choose,” I say. “You’ve been more places than I have.” I know he likes that, to make the decisions. And what do I care where we go? So long as I get him for a week, uninterrupted, unshared. For that week, he will be only mine. A fantasy. Now comes the time I both dread and live for.
“Seth, tell me about your week.”
He sets his plate down and rubs the tips of his fingers together. They are glistening from the grease of the meat. I want to go over and put his fingers in my mouth, suck them clean.
“Monday is sick, the baby...”
“Oh, no,” I say. “She’s still in her first trimester, so it will be that way for a few more weeks.”
He nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “She’s very excited, despite the sickness. I bought her one of those baby name books. She highlights the names she likes and then we look through them when I see her.”
I feel a spike of jealousy and push it aside immediately.
This is the highlight of my week, hearing about the others. I don’t want to ruin it with petty feelings.
“That’s so exciting,” I say. “Does she want a boy or a girl?”
He laughs as he walks over to the kitchen to set his plate in the sink. I hear the water running and then the lid of the trash can as he throws his paper towel away.
“She wants a boy. With dark hair, like mine. But I think whatever we have will have blond hair, like hers.”
I picture Monday in my mind—long, pin-straight blond hair, a surfer’s tan. She’s lean and muscular with perfect white teeth. She laughs a lot—mostly at the things he says—and is youthfully in love. He told me once that she is twenty-five but looks like a college girl. Normally, I’d judge a man for that, the cliché way men want younger women, but it isn’t true of him. Seth likes the connection.
“You’ll let me know as soon as you know what you’re having?”
“It’s a ways off, but yes.” He smiles, the corner of his mouth moving up. “We have a doctor’s appointment next week. I’ll have to head straight over on Monday morning.” He winks at me and I am not skilled enough to hide my flush. My legs are crossed and my foot bounces up and down as warmth fills my belly. He has the same effect on me now as he had on the first day we met.
“Can I make you a drink?” I ask, standing up.
I walk over to the bar and hit Play on the stereo. Of course he wants a drink, he always wants a drink on the evenings when we’re together. He told me that he secretly keeps a bottle of scotch at the office now, and I mentally gloat at my bad influence. Tom Waits begins to sing and I reach for the decanter of vodka.
I used to ask about Tuesday, but Seth is more hesitant to talk about her. I’ve always chalked it up to her being in a position of authority as first wife. The first wife, the first woman he loved. It’s daunting in a way to know I’m only his second choice. I’ve consoled myself with the fact that I am Seth’s legal wife, that even though they’re still together, he had to divorce her to marry me. I don’t like Tuesday. She’s selfish; her career takes the most dominant role in her life—the space I reserve for Seth. And while I disapprove, I can’t entirely blame her, either. He’s gone five days of the week. We have one rotating day that we take turns with, but it’s our job to fill the week with things that aren’t him: stupid things for me—pottery making, romance novels and Netflix; but for Tuesday, it’s her career. I root around in the pocket of my robe, searching for my ChapStick. We have entire lives outside of our marriage. It’s the only way to stay sane.
Pizza for dinner again? I used to ask. He’d admitted to me once that Tuesday was a takeout-ordering girl rather than a cooking girl.
Always so judgmental about other people’s cooking skills, he’d tease.
I set up two glasses and fill them with ice. I can hear Seth moving behind me, getting up from the couch. The soda bottle hisses as I twist off the cap and top off the glasses. Before I’m finished making our drinks, he’s behind me, kissing my neck. I dip my head to the side to give him better access. He takes his drink from me and walks over to the window while I sit.
I look over from my spot on the couch, my glass sweaty against my palm.
Seth lowers himself next to me on the couch, setting his drink on the coffee table. He reaches to rub my neck while he laughs.
His eyes are dancing, flirtatious. I fell in love with those eyes and the way they always seemed to be laughing. I lift one corner of my mouth in a smile and lean back into him, enjoying the solid feel of his body against my back. His fingers trail up and down my arm.
What’s left to discuss? I want to make sure I’m familiar with all areas of his life. “The business...?”
“Alex...” He pauses. I watch as he runs the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip, a habit I’m endeared to.
What has he done now?
“I caught him in another lie,” he says.
Alex is Seth’s business partner; they started the company together. For as long as I can remember, Alex has been the face of the business: meeting with clients and securing the jobs, while Seth is the one who manages the actual building of the homes, dealing with things like the contractors and inspections. Seth has told me that the very first time they butted heads was over the name of the company: Alex wanted his last name to be incorporated into the name of the business, while Seth wanted it to include the Pacific Northwest. They’d fought it out and settled on Emerald City Development. Over the last years their attention to detail and the sheer beauty of the homes they build has secured them several high-profile clients. I have never met Alex; he doesn’t know I exist. He thinks Seth’s wife is Tuesday. When Seth and Tuesday were first married, they’d go on vacations with Alex and his wife—once to Hawaii and another time on a ski holiday to Banff. I’ve seen Alex in photos. He’s an inch shorter than his wife, Barbara, who is a former Miss Utah. Squat and balding, he has a close-lipped smugness about him.
There are so many people I haven’t met. Seth’s parents, for example, and his childhood friends. As second wife,
I may never have the chance.
“Oh?” I say. “What’s up?”
My existence is exhausting, all of the games I play. This is a woman’s curse. Be direct, but not too direct. Be strong, but not too strong. Ask questions, but not too many. I take a sip of my drink and sit on the couch next to him.
“Do you enjoy this?” he asks. “It’s sort of strange, you asking about—”
“I enjoy you.” I smile. “Knowing your world, what you feel and experience when you aren’t with me.” It’s true, isn’t it? I love my husband, but I’m not the only one. There are others. My only power is my knowledge. I can thwart, one-up, fuck his brains out and feign an aloof detached interest, all with a few well-timed questions.
Seth sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Let’s go to bed,” he says.
I study his face. For tonight, he’s done talking about them. He holds out a hand to help me up and I take it, letting him pull me to my feet.
We make love this time, kissing deeply as I wrap my legs around him. I shouldn’t wonder, but I do. How does a man love so many women? A different woman almost every other day. And where do I fall in the category of favor?
He falls asleep quickly, but I do not. Thursday is the day I don’t sleep.
Need to know what happens next? Pick up your copy of The Wives wherever you buy your books!
Copyright © 2019 by Tarryn Fisher
ISBN-13: 9781488076749
The Wrong Family
Copyright © 2020 by Tarryn Fisher
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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