by Britney King
“Dinner?” he reminds me. “Do I need to get dinner?”
“No.” I scroll through my phone. Snap a photo of my shoes next to the Porsche logo on the floor mat and post it to Instalook. Caption it with: Love mornings with my man.
Scrolling through my feed, I glance up. He likes it when I post on Instalook. Superficiality is his specialty. “I have to pick up Avery from dance at four. Then I plan to head back up to see June. I'll fix something and leave it in the fridge between now and then…”
He frowns. “You won’t be home when I arrive?”
I like eighteen photos. Not so different from my own. Fifteen of them are members of the church, the other three, we’re trying to recruit.
“Josie.”
“Sorry,” I say. “The Chick Tribe has had a busy morning…” That’s what we call ourselves. It was a joke at first, or at least I think, but somehow it stuck. Anyway, it’s good for business, nonetheless. “What did you ask?”
Ordinarily, he’d be annoyed I wasn’t listening. But those two words have power. The kind only money and influence bring.
“Will you be home when I get home?”
“I don’t know. Depends on how long things take at the hospital…”
He shakes his head. “There’s nothing you can do for June, love. It’s important you let her rest.” He sighs. “And, she needs to not rely so much on you. We need you at home, Jos .”
“I know,” I agree. I check the number of likes I received. Shit. I forgot to tag the shoes. Everyone wants to know where they came from. I glance at the bottom of my heel. I can’t remember now and then I look over at my husband. “But the kids are getting older, and you’ll be working late… so I just figured—”
He holds his hand up to cut me off. “Is it really so much to ask that the first thing I see when I walk through the door is my wife’s beautiful face?”
I swallow hard. “No,” I say, and suddenly it clicks. The shoes came from Nordstrom’s. Last season. I should have thought of that. I can’t very well say this. It’ll be disappointing to the tribe. “What time should I have dinner ready?”
He nods and gives another of his reassuring smiles. “That sounds perfect,” he says which doesn’t answer the question at all. He stops at a red light and just when I think he isn’t going to say anything further, he does. “I really couldn’t live without you, Josie. I know this isn’t easy for you…with everything going on right now…but most things in life that are meaningful aren’t easy.”
I frown. It sounds like he just pulled a random quote out of thin air and inserted it into our conversation. Also, I feel one of his pep talks coming, and I’m not in the mood. Speaking of easy, I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. I don’t want to hear it, so I throw him a curveball. “Do you think you can pick up James from soccer?”
“What time?” he asks, furrowing his brow. I don’t know why he’s confused. It’s farcical. For the past seven months, our son’s practice has ended at the same time everyday.
“5 o'clock,” I answer, careful to keep my tone steady. Neutral. Tone is important to my husband. It’s written into the manual.
“Sorry. I can’t.” He shakes his head. “I have a patient at 4:30.”
Of course you do, I almost say. I stare out the passenger window and bite my tongue instead.
“How about stopping off for coffee?”
I look over at him. My husband doesn’t drink coffee. Which means I usually don’t either. But I see it for what it is—a peace offering.
I look over and nod. “That sounds great.”
He winks at me, an unspoken gesture that says so much. He looks so boyish behind the wheel, relaxed, the sunlight glinting off his skin. I see the love written in his expression, and it’s hard to be angry about the rest of it. It’s familiar, this look, a reminder of what was, what has always been. I remember he winked like that on our wedding day, standing at the altar, as though the two of us were in on some sort of secret the rest of the world didn’t get.
“It's a good thing he'll be driving in a few weeks…”
“Huh?” Then I get it. He’s not thinking about our wedding day. He’s thinking about our son.
“James.”
“Yes,” I agree, although I'm not so sure. I’m not ready to have another thing to worry about.
I see his eyes glance at the clock on the dash. “They grow up so fast, don't they?”
“They do,” I reply, and at least that much is true.
We stop for coffee at a new place, or at least I think it’s new. Maybe I just never noticed it before. I don’t drink coffee anymore, so it’s hard to say. In any case, we don’t speak much after that. Grant says silence is golden.
At home, he drops me at the door, or rather in the drive. He has to run. I feel that familiar pang, loneliness, or longing, who’s to say? It only lasts for a second, because when I walk in the front door there are a dozen long-stemmed pink roses sitting in the foyer. I lean in and inhale the familiar scent, and then I pluck the card, sliding it between my fingers, feeling the weight of the paper. I open it, even though I’m pretty sure I know what it will say. There are only a few variations. I love you. Always have. Always will. Love, Grant.
I lean back and snap the photo with my phone. I post it to Instalook with the hashtag #luckiestwifeever .
And I am the luckiest wife ever. If one is to overlook the fact that my husband had his assistant order these, and someone else deliver them, and the fact that he can’t be here for me when I really need him. If you forget to consider those things, then yes, it’s all true. I roll my shoulders and try to release the weight of this morning. This isn’t his fault, the situation with June. Well, not entirely. I shouldn’t be so annoyed with him. He is trying. Clearly, he’s trying.
I set my phone down and sit on the plush bench in the foyer. It’s well-cushioned and pale green. Grant’s choice. I know he won’t like me sitting on it, having just been at the hospital. He despises germs, which is why I had to practically beg him to let me see June, given the infection. I half-expected he’d say I shouldn’t go back up this afternoon. But he didn’t.
I crack my neck and open my phone. I check Instalook to see how many “likes” I’ve gotten. Forty-five in nineteen seconds. Not bad. Still, I sigh. I reply to the comments about the shoes. Grant brought them back for me from a trip, I lie.
I cross and uncross my legs. Smooth my dress. If I lean forward just enough I can see her house. I don’t want to, but sometimes it’s an itch I have to scratch. I scratch hard this time, allowing myself a good, hard look. It’s so different now, so empty without her, even though it isn’t empty at all. So much has changed, and yet nothing has. Kate was my best friend. I make myself look away. I thumb through Instalook, see what the Chick Tribe is up to. This helps.
I don’t like to think about how good it used to be. That’s why I don’t look often, not anymore. It hurts too much, even after all this time. But sometimes on occasion, if I’m antsy, the way I am now, I allow myself just a peek, a tiny glimpse into the past. I’m careful though. I don’t venture too far down that path or there are consequences. Friends like Kate don’t come around often, and in fact, and I know it sounds cliché, but I’ve never met anyone like her since. I don’t think I ever will. The closest I’ve come is June, and our friendship is based solely on our positions within the church, so that isn’t saying much. Still, I like June. Which is more than I can say for the rest of them.
I pick up my phone again. Not today, I tell myself. I won’t go there today. I feel antsy, so I open Instalook again. I close it quickly; I have things to do. But not before checking the number of likes I’ve received on my roses. Ninety-seven so far. In thirty-eight seconds. I know it shouldn't matter— but those likes make me feel good.
I shoot a text to Grant, thanking him for the flowers. They're beautiful, I write. I mean it, but also, I know how much my husband appreciates reciprocation. While I wait for him to text back, my phone rings. It's Jun
e. I already know why she’s calling. She’s scared. I saw it this morning. She told me as much, when Grant stepped out to take a call. She thinks someone is out to get her. Grant assures me this can happen when the body is fighting an infection, when a person is really sick. But he’s wrong about part of it. June was like this before he performed the breast enhancement on her. She was paranoid before the infection. He didn’t say anything when I mentioned that. He doesn’t like it when I worry.
“I have to pick up Avery first,” I tell her.
“Can’t she ride the bus?” She scoffs. “My kids always rode the bus…”
“She hates the bus, June.” I don’t mean to sound annoyed but maybe Grant is right. Maybe I shouldn’t let her depend on me so much. It’s just that she reminds me a little of Kate and Kate depended on me a lot. I guess it’s good to feel needed. “No one rides the bus these days.”
“Sure they do,” she says. “Why else would they have them?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut.
“And, you know, it might make her appreciate you a little more if she had to face a little bit of hardship. Speaking of hardship,” she says lowering her voice. “I have to tell you, I think it’s going to happen today. I don’t care what it takes Josie—you have to do something. You have to get me out of here.”
“June, please.”
“Please, what?”
“We’ve discussed this.”
She starts in on me again, and I listen for a few moments until my head throbs, and my phone buzzes.
“Avery is beeping in,” I tell her. “I have to go.”
“What? Who?”
“I’ve got to go,” I repeat. “I’ll be there at 5:30,” I promise, and I press the button to switch calls.
“Avery—”
“Mom,” I hear my daughter say on the other end of the line. She’s breathless, but then that’s the norm these days. Everything is urgent and everything is a disaster. This is fourteen. “I need you to pick me up,” she huffs. “ASAP—we have a semester test in biology, and I have a massive headache…I can't possibly take that test today.”
“Avery…”
“What? If I do, I'll seriously flunk out of school!”
“Avery, I can’t pick you up right now,” I sigh. “I have a long list of things to do. Can’t you just stick it out?”
“Mommmmm. NO.” She’s annoyed with me, every bit her father’s daughter. “I can’t just stick it out,” she swears. “Do you even realize what you’re asking me?”
Of course I realize what I’m asking.
“Avery—”
“You know what?” she huffs. “Never mind. I’ll just start walking home.”
“Fine,” I relent. I shake my head at what I’m about to say. “I’ll be there in 20 minutes. Be ready and waiting on the bench.”
She knows I won't let her walk home. It's an empty threat. At this age, she's still all arms and legs, outgoing and headstrong, everything that I wasn’t. She's moody and impossible— all the things no one tells you about when they place that little bundle of joy in your arms.
Avery didn’t speak until she was almost two and a half, and I remember practically willing her to talk. Grant swore up and down that it was that one glass of wine I had before I knew I was pregnant. A woman should be reserved in all things. But we both knew that wasn’t it. He, more so than me, given that he’s an actual doctor. I begged him to let me take her to a speech therapist, but he refused. Until one day I took her anyway. I’ll never forget how I paid for that. Interestingly enough, it was a few short days after that Avery graced us with her first word. It wasn’t Mama and it wasn’t Dada. It was no.
Of course, these days things are a little different. She never shuts up, and most of the time, I remember to be thankful for that. That’s not to say that I don’t brace myself whenever my phone rings. I know who’s calling. The church, Grant, but usually it’s the kids. This is the stage of parenting where you never quite know what the call will bring. Sometimes it's a forgotten lunch, sometimes it's a needed ride, usually it’s "I need money,” "Can you put money in my account?” or "Can I go home with so and so after school?”
The answer is almost always yes, and I’m sure that’s the problem. I once complained to Grant about it. He simply sighed, and shook his head like I was the most daft person on the planet. Afterward, he’d reminded me, this is my job, and if I only stopped to consider the stuff he has to deal with on a day-to-day basis, then maybe I wouldn't complain so much.
But he’s wrong about that.
I do think about the kinds of things he has to deal with. I think about those women, how he sculpts perfect breasts. I think about their perfect bodies, the kind of precision it takes to mold the perfect face, and I can’t help but wonder if he isn’t right.
Chapter Four
Izzy
“Thank you for covering for me,” Stacey calls out. Her voice sounds exasperated, but it’s always like that. From the corner of my eye, I see her slip the apron over her head. I notice the way the corners of her lips turn up as she ties it behind her back. It makes me roll my eyes. I can’t help myself. She loves this place, and I wish I had something I loved that much.
“No problem,” I answer, which is pretty much the same thing as saying: how could I say no when you offered me triple the pay?
That’s the thing about people like Stacey. She thinks I covered an extra shift to be nice, or more likely because I had nothing better to do other than save her ass. Even if she wasn’t right, even if I didn’t have anything on my plate not counting staring at those same beige walls and surfing the internet, that isn’t the point. The point is, it never occurred to her that I might actually need the money, and why would it? Stacey came by Lucky’s Sandwich Shoppe the way most people on this end of town come by the things they have. Inheritance. A member of the lucky sperm club, Stacey was born into the right family at the right time, without a care in the world, her last name practically a guarantee she’d never have to question where her next meal is going to come from. Even if she didn’t own a sandwich shoppe.
This is probably why she constantly talks of closing down, although we both know she’s full of it. Lucky’s was her grandfather’s, and she couldn’t bear to see it go. It’s in her blood, as she likes to say, which is another way of her saying it’s a nice hobby to keep her busy, seeing that she has all the money she’ll ever need. This and the fact it makes her look like she’s actually contributing something to the world, even if that something is just unremarkable coffee and mediocre sandwiches in an aesthetic environment.
“No seriously,” she drones on. “I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I shrug, because I’m not sure what to say to that. I don’t feel that way about anyone. Maybe not even Josh, back when he was alive. Also, I’m smart enough to know it’s better to say nothing when what I really want is to tell her she's being melodramatic. Thankfully, for the both of us, I know when to keep my mouth shut. About a lot of things.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I dislike Stacey. I guess you could say I’m indifferent. We have an agreement. It’s simple this way. I work. She pays. The gig feeds me, in more ways than one. It isn’t all bad. There’s amusement in it, at least. Stacey’s one of those eternally optimistic people whose every complaint is packaged neatly, at best, and backhanded, at worst.
I finger my earrings, the ones she bought for me last month after I saw someone on Instalook (@luckygirl242) wearing a pair and commented how much I liked them. She likes to do that, surprise me with things, just because she can. It’d be nice to say I appreciate her gestures. But mostly, it makes me hate her a little bit.
I type my employee number into the computer (3-2-1), officially clocking myself out. Finally. I’ve been counting the minutes to freedom. I’m in a hurry, so I wipe my hands on my jeans and instantly I regret it. They’re my favorite pair. I splurged on them after @fashionistaforver777 posted pictures on Instalook
calling them on trend. Thinking of her now, I close my eyes and exhale. I shake my head. If you hadn’t gotten so close, you wouldn’t have been so let down. @Fashionistaforver777 also known as Alice IRL (in real life) used to be one of my favorites to follow. I loved her vacation photos, and her makeup tricks, despite the fact that I couldn’t afford any of them. Well, not really.
It was her husband Saul who really drew me in. He loved her. I could always tell when it was him behind the lens. And so, when she announced her divorce, that was it for me— I couldn’t go on pretending to want to dress and look and vacation like her, when she was clearly not appreciative of any of it. She tossed Saul aside like she tossed the latest (#solastseason) trend. I shouldn’t have let it get me down the way it did. Things meant nothing to her. So why would people?
“See you in a few,” Stacey calls through the door, bringing me back to the here and now. It’s not a question, and I'm not sure how much of that is part of the problem for me. Before today, before I saw the two of them, I considered packing it all up. I thought about disappearing, getting away from this place. I thought what I needed was a fresh start. But seeing Grant Dunn and his lovely wife gave me hope, and now I'm not so sure. Maybe this morning won’t be my last shift after all.
“See you for second shift,” I say on my way out, unusually upbeat, and I actually mean it. For the first time in a long time, I'm buzzing with excitement. I don’t even make it to the car before I’m tapping the letters into my screen. I check Instalook for his name first. No dice. Then I go straight to Google. Grant Dunn. Tell me. Who are you? Who is that you’re married to? And, where do the two of you like to play online?
Chapter Five
Josie