The Wives

TWENTY-SIX

Adele plays on the radio as I navigate through the early-morning traffic. I feel better today, more like myself. I turn up the volume and at the same time I slam on the breaks. The work truck I almost collided with surges forward another few feet and I follow more cautiously this time. Adele’s voice is so melancholy that I suddenly feel the full loneliness of my situation. What am I doing here? Maybe I am crazy. I pull into the parking lot abruptly, cutting Adele off as I kill the ignition. No, Seth is a liar and I have to find a way to prove it. What happened with Hannah has been replaying in my mind all morning. I get a knot in my stomach remembering the vacancy in her eyes when she looked at me. Something is wrong and I need to get to the bottom of it. Reaching out to Regina is the only option I can think of. I think about the dating profile I set up for Will Moffit. It’s been ages since I’ve checked it and I wonder if Regina thinks he’s blown her off.

The offices of Markel & Abel are located in a three-story white stone building that faces a small lake. They share the building with a title company and a pediatrician’s office. I peer into car windows as they drive by, heading into the underground garage beneath the building. One of them could be Regina. I consider cornering her in the garage, but that would accomplish little except making me appear unhinged. No, I need to do this the right way, the way I’ve planned. I tell myself this, but right before I get out of the car I start to cry. They’re mostly numb tears; I can’t pinpoint if I’m scared, or sad, or angry, but they won’t stop coming. I catch them on the back of my hand, drying it on my jeans.

Something feels wrong, but I don’t know what. I dry my eyes for the final time and swipe lip gloss over my lips, a poor attempt to look like a woman not falling apart. When I push open the doors of the building I can hear the squeal of a toddler and the pounding of little feet. A second later, a tiny blond human comes barreling around the corner, his exhausted-looking mother in fast pursuit.

“Sorry,” she says, scooping him up as he knocks into me. He cuddles into her arms, looking pleased with himself, and dips his head to her shoulder. A pang of something in my chest—but I push it away, smiling at her as she adjusts him on her hip and carries him back toward the doctor’s office.

I almost follow them just to see what will happen, then remember why I’m here. I climb the stairs to the second floor, slowing as I eye the glass doors. Behind them is a large sitting area flanked with brown leather couches, elegant and masculine. To the rear of the room, and directly in my line of sight, is the receptionist’s desk. A woman with a topknot and glasses has a phone pressed to her ear as she types something into a computer. I feel overly conscious about my too-big sweater and scruffy jeans. I wish I’d brought something more appropriate.

Pushing through the doors, I walk directly to reception and greet her with a smile just as her call ends.

“Welcome,” she says with practiced professionalism. “How can I help you?”

“I have an appointment,” I say. “With Regina Coele.” I pause, trying to recall the name I used when making the appointment. It feels like ages ago, not just weeks. “I’m Lauren Brian.” I clasp my hands at my waist and try to look bored. She briefly glances up at me before typing something into the computer.

“I see that you missed your appointment last week, Mrs. Brian.” She frowns. “We don’t have anything scheduled for you today.” She looks at me expectantly.

I lift a hand to my forehead and arrange my face into what I hope is a perplexed expression. “I... I...” I stutter. Tears fill my eyes as I lock my gaze with hers. I’d been locked away in Queen County, eating my Jell-O and staring at Susan’s lack of eyelashes on the day of my appointment. I don’t have to act flustered, since I already am. Lifting a hand to my face, I drop it abruptly.

“Things have just been so... I’m getting divorced,” I say. “I must have mixed things up...”

I see her soften.

“Give me a minute.” She stands and disappears down a corridor, presumably where the lawyers keep their offices. I look around the waiting area, still relatively empty this early in the day. An older woman sits in the far corner, a Starbucks cup in one hand and a copy of Good Housekeeping in the other. I perch on the edge of a chair closest to the reception desk, my fingers crossed and my leg bouncing in sync with my nerves.

She returns a few minutes later and slides into her seat. I can’t read her expression.

“Mrs. Brian, Ms. Coele has offered to skip her lunch if you’re willing to come back at twelve o’clock.”

A good person, a nice person! I feel a leap in my chest as I stand and approach the desk. “I am,” I say quickly. “Thank you for doing that for me.” I mean it with all my heart, the gratitude thick in my voice.

She nods like it’s nothing. The phone is ringing again; I’m getting in her way. I back away from the desk, glancing at the time on the wall. Four hours to kill.

I find a small clothing boutique in a shopping plaza nearby. Pretty Missy. I flinch at the name as I consider the window display. The ruffled knee socks and positive-vibe T-shirts are enough to turn me away, but I have time to kill and my options are limited. I catch sight of my reflection as I walk in the shop. My orange sweater reminds me of a prison jumpsuit. I riffle through the racks for thirty minutes before I find a brown suede jacket and white top to wear underneath it. Better, I think. I hand my cash over to the salesgirl and change in my car, dumping the sweater in the backseat before redressing. The new clothes are itchy and I scratch at my skin until it feels raw.

On my drive back to the white office building I see a bar, the Open sign flashing sporadically in the window. I check the time: three more hours. It’s too early to drink, but I pull into the parking lot, anyway. There are only two other cars here. One of them probably belongs to the bartender, the other to the town drunk. I eye the older-model Mercedes as I head for the door, my shoes crunching on the gravel. I can already taste the liquor on the back of my throat. How long has it been since I had a drink?

When I push open the door, the smell of a dive bar greets me: a medley of stale air, spilled beer and body odor. I breathe in the smell as I slide onto a bar stool and order a vodka soda from a guy with tired eyes and a Van Halen T-shirt. I’m thankful he doesn’t speak to me, just slides the drink across the counter without making eye contact and moves on to something else. This would be the time I’d pull out my phone, scroll through the updates my friends were posting on Facebook, maybe check the sales on my favorite shopping websites. I stare at my drink instead, the true body language of someone who’s sitting in a bar before lunchtime, and plan what I’m going to say to Regina.