The Wife Upstairs

by Rachel Hawkins

  My house.

  I make myself another cup of coffee, and carry it back upstairs to the massive en suite, my favorite part of the house so far.

  Like nearly everything else here, the bathroom is oversized, but not overwhelming. Bea’s stamp is here, too, of course. Had Eddie designed this room, I think it would probably be sleeker, more modern. Glass and steel and subway tile. Instead, it’s marble and copper with a tile floor with a mosaic of—shocker—a magnolia in the center.

  I scuff my bare toe against one of the dark green leaves before making my way to the tub.

  We had a bathtub in the apartment, but I’d have to be high to actually take a bath in it. Not only is it cramped and stained with black mold in the corners, but the thought of my naked body sitting where John takes a shower? Too horrible to contemplate. No, I’ve always taken the world’s fastest showers, cringing every time the shower curtain touches me.

  I fucking deserve this bathtub.

  Sitting on the edge, I lean forward and turn on the hot tap, coffee cup still in one hand as I test the water with the fingers of the other.

  I’ll get to take a bath in here every day now, forever. This is how I’ll spend my mornings. No more drive from Center Point.

  No more dog-walking.

  And once I’m done with today’s soak, I’ll get dressed and drive over to that dingy little apartment before putting it behind me and never looking back.

  * * *

  I take what Eddie calls “the sensible car,” a Mercedes SUV, and make my way from the shady enclaves of Mountain Brook to the strip malls and ugly apartment complexes of my old home.

  It feels strange, parking such a nice car in the space where I used to park my beat-up Hyundai, and stranger still to walk up the concrete steps in my new leather sandals, the clack of my heels loud enough to make me flinch.

  Number 234 looks even dingier somehow, and I dig my keys out of my purse.

  But when I put the key in, I realize the door is unlocked, and I frown as I step inside. John’s a moron, but he’s not the type to be this careless.

  And then I realize it’s me who’s the careless one because I should’ve called the church before I came here this morning, should’ve made sure John had actually gone into work and wouldn’t be doing what he is currently doing—namely, sitting on the couch with my afghan draped over him, watching boring morning television.

  “She returns,” he says around a mouthful of cereal. He could eat cereal for every meal, I think, always the cheap, sugary shit they make for kids. Never brand names, so things like “Fruity Ohs” and “Sugar Flakes.” Whatever he’s shoveling into his mouth now has turned the milk a muddy gray, and I don’t even bother to hide my disgust as I ask, “Shouldn’t you be at the church?”

  John shrugs, his eyes still on the TV. “Day off.”

  Great.

  He turns to say more then, and his eyes go a little wide when he sees me. “What are you wearing?”

  I want to make some kind of joke about saving those lines for his internet girlfriends, but that would prolong this interaction and that’s the last thing I need, so I just wave him off and make for my room.

  The door is open even though I distinctly remember closing it, and I press my lips together, irritated. But my bed is still made up, and when I open a drawer, all my underwear appears to be accounted for, so that’s a relief, at least.

  Reaching under the bed, I pull out my battered duffel bag, and have already unzipped it before I stop and look around.

  It’s not like I didn’t know my room was deeply sad. No matter what I did, it always looked grubby and just a little institutional, almost like a cell.

  But now, after two weeks living in Eddie’s house?

  There is not a single thing I want to take with me.

  I want to leave all of this—the dullness, the cheap fabrics, the frayed edges—behind.

  More than that, really.

  I want to set it all on fucking fire.

  When I walk out of the bedroom, I’m not carrying anything. Not the duffel, which I’d shoved back under the bed. Not my underwear, which John was now welcome to be as pervy as he liked with. Not even the little trinkets and treasures I’d taken from all the houses in Thornfield Estates.

  John turned off the TV, and he now faces me on the couch, my afghan still on his upraised knees. He’s smirking at me, probably because he’s expecting me to ask for the blanket, and he’s ready to say something that just skirts the line, something that’s supposed to make me wonder if he’s being gross or not (he is).

  He can keep that blanket, too.

  “I’m moving out,” I say without preamble, shoving my hands in my back pockets. “I should be all paid up on rent, so—”

  “You can’t just leave.”

  Anger sparks inside my chest, but, right on the heels of it, there’s something else.

  Joy.

  I am never going to look at this asshole’s face again. I’m never going to sleep in this depressing apartment or take a sad shower under trickling, lukewarm water. I’m never going to dig money out of my pocket to hand over to John Rivers ever again.

  “And yet I am leaving. Wild.”

  John’s eyes narrow. “You owe me two weeks’ notice,” he says, and now I laugh, tipping my head back.

  “You’re not my landlord, John,” I say. “You’re just some sad little boy who thought I’d sleep with you if you let me stay here. And you overcharged me for rent.”

  There’s a dull flush creeping up his neck, his lower lip sticking out just the tiniest bit, and once again, I am so relieved that this is it, the last time I’ll ever have to talk to him.

  But soon, people like John Rivers won’t even exist to me. He barely exists right now.

  “I never wanted to sleep with you,” he mutters, his tone still sulky. “You’re not even hot.”

  That would’ve stung once upon a time. Even coming from someone like John. I’ve always been aware of how completely plain I am, small, nondescript. And I’ve definitely felt it when I look at pictures of Bea, her dark, glossy hair swinging around that pretty face with its high cheekbones and wide eyes. That body that was somehow lush and trim at the same time, in contrast with my own straight-up-and-down, almost boyish body.

  But Eddie wanted me. Small, plain, boring me.

  It made me feel beautiful, for once. And powerful.

  So I look at John and smirk. “Keep telling yourself that,” I say, then I turn and walk out.

  I’m not sure hearing a door close behind me has ever been this satisfying, and as I walk back to the car, I actually welcome the slap of my heels, love how loud they are.

  Fuck. You, I think with every step. Fuck. You. Fuck. You.

  I’m grinning when I reach the Mercedes, and I grab my keys, pressing the little button to unlock the doors. It takes me a moment to realize that there’s a familiar red car parked just across the parking lot, and my first thought is that it’s weird anyone here has that nice of a car.

  It’s not until Eddie is stepping out of the driver’s side and walking toward me that my brain fully absorbs that it’s his car, that he’s … here. In Center Point. In my shitty apartment complex.

  Seeing him is so jarring that my instinct is to run away, to jump in my car (his car, my asshole brain reminds me), and get the hell out of here.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he says as he approaches, keys dangling from his fingers.

  “You followed me?” I blurt out, glad I’m wearing sunglasses so that he can’t see my full expression. I’m rattled, not just because it seems weirdly out of character for Eddie to follow me, but because he’s here. He’s seen this place now, this ugly little hole I tried to hide from him. Doesn’t matter that I’m leaving it all behind. The fact that he knows it existed at all makes me feel close to tears.

  Sighing, Eddie shoves his hands in his back pockets. The wind ruffles his hair, and he looks so out of place standing in this parking lot, in this life.

 
That sense of vertigo gets stronger.

  “I know,” Eddie says. “It’s crazy and I shouldn’t have done it.”

  Then he gives me a sheepish grin. He’s not wearing his sunglasses, and he squints slightly in the bright light.

  “But you make me crazy, what can I say?”

  Even though the sun is beating down on us, I feel a chill wash over me.

  Eddie is romantic, for sure. Passionate, definitely. But this … doesn’t feel like him.

  You’ve known him for about five minutes, so maybe you don’t actually know him, I remind myself.

  There’s only one way to play this. I smile in return, rolling my eyes as I do. “That is so cheesy,” I say, but I make sure to look pleased, tugging my lower lip between my teeth to really sell it.

  It must work, because his shoulders droop slightly with relief, and then he steps forward, sliding his arms around my waist.

  Pressing my forehead against his chest, I breathe him in. You’re being stupid, I tell myself. I’m so used to men lying to me, manipulating me, that now I see it where it doesn’t exist. Maybe Eddie is the type to go a little over the top when he’s into someone. There could be all sorts of stuff about him that I haven’t worked out yet.

  “Are you the boyfriend?”

  We both turn to see John standing there on the stairs in his T-shirt and loose sweats. He’s barefoot, his hair greasy and sticking up in spikes, and observing them near each other, it’s hard to believe he and Eddie are from the same species.

  “So it seems,” Eddie replies, his voice easy, but I can feel him stiffen slightly, his muscles tense.

  “Cool,” John mutters, his eyes darting between the two of us, clearly trying to make sense of what’s happening here.

  Eddie is still smiling at him, still friendly and relaxed, but there’s something radiating off him, something dark and intense, and when I glance down, I see that his hand is curled into a fist at his side.

  John doesn’t notice, though, walking down the steps to stand right in front of us. This close, I can smell his sweat, smell the sugary scent of whatever cereal he was eating.

  “Jane owes me two weeks’ notice before she moves out,” he says, and Eddie’s eyebrows go up.

  “I don’t,” I say. “That’s not even a thing.”

  “It is,” John insists, and I see this as the desperate grab for control that it is. Doesn’t mean it sucks any less, though, and my face has grown hot in that dull throbbing way, a blush creeping up from my chest.

  “Send the paperwork over to my lawyer,” Eddie says, fishing around for his wallet before pulling out a business card. He keeps grinning at John as he hands it to him, and I see John’s eyes flick between the card and Eddie’s face before he takes it.

  “Will do,” he says, but I know this is the last we’re ever hearing from John Rivers. His kind of bullshit only barely works against women with no options. Against someone like Eddie? With his nice car and casual use of “my lawyer”? John has nothing.

  But he can’t keep from delivering one last parting shot.

  “Good luck, man,” he says, his gaze skating over to me. “She’s a fucking handful.”

  The shame that rises up in my throat threatens to choke me. I hate this, that Eddie now knows this asshole was a part of my life, that he fully understands just how shabby everything was before he found me.

  Slipping an arm around my waist, Eddie gives me a brief squeeze. “Janie, would you go grab my phone out of my car? I want to be sure I get John’s phone number in case there are any other issues.”

  It’s not the reaction I expected at all, which is maybe why I just nod and start to cross the parking lot to Eddie’s car.

  I’ve just reached the back bumper when I glance over my shoulder at Eddie and John.

  They’re standing closer now, Eddie’s head lowered as he speaks to John.

  He never lays a hand on John, never uses his superior height to loom over him or threaten, but there’s something there, etched in every line of his body, that speaks of violence. That makes me think he wants nothing more than to send John through the windshield of the nearest car.

  And John, stupid though he may be, sees it, too. His face goes even paler, and whatever Eddie is saying, smiling all the while, has John backing up the steps, his hands deep in the pockets of his sweatpants. In his haste, he actually stumbles, arms pinwheeling, and Eddie makes no move to steady him, letting him flail before John rights himself. With one final dirty look at me, he turns and heads back up to his apartment.

  His now. His alone. Never mine again.

  Eddie walks over to the car, then, his gait loose and rolling again, all that tension vanished like it was never even there.

  And when he reaches me, he holds out his hands, takes mine, and squeezes.

  “Please tell me that douchebag wasn’t your ex,” he says with a grin, and I’d be lying if I said a little shiver of lust didn’t go through me. Is it because of his proximity or because protecting me from John is a turn-on?

  In any case, it’s not totally feigned when I press closer and say, “Please have a better opinion of my taste in men.”

  Still grinning, Eddie leans forward and kisses the tip of my nose. “How can I when you’re in love with me?”

  11

  It takes forever to plan my first “accidental” meeting with the ladies of Thornfield Estates. The moment had to be perfect, after all—I was only getting one shot at this, and I wanted to be sure I nailed it. I’d thought about trying to engineer something in the village, bumping into them at Roasted, maybe just strolling down the sidewalk, bags from one of the pricier boutiques hanging off my arms.

  I’d spent hours imagining that scenario, and while it was satisfying, it didn’t have quite the impact I wanted.

  Then I’d thought about being really bold and just texting them, inviting them over for lunch at Eddie’s, but the house still held too much of Bea, and I was worried that I’d look like a pale imitation standing in her space.

  Then I remembered that Emily Clark and Campbell Reed both loved to walk the neighborhood in the mornings, and suddenly I knew exactly how I wanted that first meeting to go down.

  So here I am, walking the sidewalks of Thornfield Estates, Adele on her leash pulling me along.

  Walking a dog when you’re not being paid to do it is actually kind of fun. The weather is nice, Adele is well-behaved, and I like how she looks back over her shoulder at me whenever she spots something new, wagging her tail, giving me her little doggy smile.

  Or maybe I just like her more now because she’s mine. Mine and Eddie’s together, bought after Bea was long gone.

  I’m so busy thinking about that, this idea of Eddie and me having something that’s only ours, that I almost miss the moment when Emily and Campbell see me.

  But when I glance up, there they are, both wearing white and brightly colored neon sneakers, both with sunglasses so huge half their faces are covered.

  That’s a shame because it means I don’t catch as much of their expressions as I’d like, but the subtle parting of Emily’s lips, the way Campbell’s stride stutters just a little, is enough.

  “Jane?”

  Emily moves forward, a little faster than Campbell who ambles up behind her, hands pressed to her lower back.

  “Oh, hey!” I say, raising my hand, then tucking my hair behind my ear, ducking my head a little, in full Sheepish Mode.

  “I thought you’d quit dog-walking?” Emily asks, glancing down at Adele, and I laugh a little, winding a part of the leash around my palm.

  “I did,” I say. “I’m just out walking Adele for a little exercise.”

  I wait for it to click. They have to put the pieces together themselves because if I push it, the gossip will be about how smug I was.

  Look, don’t get me wrong—I am super fucking smug right now. But I also want Emily and Campbell and Caroline McLaren to eventually see me as a friend, not an enemy, and that means I have to nail this delivery
, the moment they first see me as Eddie’s girlfriend, not the dog-walker.

  “Did Eddie give her to you or something?” Emily asks, and I stifle a sigh. Of all the ladies in the neighborhood, Emily is the nicest, but definitely not the brightest. I suddenly wish Caroline were there. I’d have to do a lot less work for her.

  Luckily, Campbell comes to my rescue. Shoving her sunglasses up on her head, she looks at me, eyes wide. “You’re the mystery girl,” she says, then nudges Emily. “Remember, we said that we thought Eddie was seeing someone?”

  Emily’s jaw drops comically round, a little “oh” escaping her mouth.

  I wave my free hand, shifting my weight slightly. “It was really sudden,” I say, “and it’s still really new, and I felt awkward saying anything, and…” I trail off, then give a sort of groan, rolling my eyes. “Well, now I feel really awkward.”

  This is another trick I’ve learned over the years—make people think they have the upper hand, and they trust you so much faster. I can already see Campbell’s expression softening, and Emily’s smile seems genuine.

  I’m not a threat, not an interloper. I’m just Sweet Jane Who Got Absurdly Lucky and Knows It.

  They can work with that.

  Emily reaches out and slaps affectionately at my arm. “You minx,” she teases. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anyone use that word, but it sounds right coming out of Emily’s mouth.

  And then, just like I’d hoped, she gestures back toward her house. “This is too good a story to hear while we’re standing in the middle of the street. Let’s go back to mine.”

  * * *

  It feels different, being in Emily’s house as a guest.

  I let Adele out into the backyard with Major and Colonel, smiling as the dogs wag their tails at me, then go back inside to the kitchen, where Campbell and Emily are standing at the counter. They’ve totally been talking about me—they look up too quickly when I come in, and move a little farther apart—but they don’t seem suspicious or pissed off. Just surprised, probably.