American Wife

respond immediately, and I added, “Is your mom really upset?”

“I haven’t talked to her.”

“Well, I just was thinking about your family.” I paused. “Dena, I miss you. I’m sorry and I miss you.”

She was silent. Then she said, “Are you still seeing him?”

“I understand why you’re angry at me, obviously, but this shouldn’t ruin our friendship. I didn’t set out to spite you.”

“So you are still seeing him?”

“Dena, you’ve dated a lot more men than I have. It just seems like—Well, you’re so pretty and dynamic, and I’m a hundred percent confident that you’ll meet someone you really click with. You’ll be

glad

you didn’t end up with Charlie.”

“It must be nice to be clairvoyant.” Her tone was dry.

“What I have with him, it’s not like anything I’ve experienced in the past,” I said. “I wouldn’t be cavalier about our friendship, but this just feels different.”

“That’s what you called to tell me?”

I was sitting at my kitchen table, and I looked down at the place mat, orange vinyl with a butterfly motif, and I knew Dena wouldn’t forgive me. Still, I said, “Is your sister all right? A few weeks ago, my mom mentioned—”

“Alice, just stop,” she said. “Okay? Stop it.”

“If you change your mind—” I began.

She cut me off. “Leave me alone. That’s all I want from you.”

THE FOLLOWING EVENING, as we were standing in line at the co-op, Charlie turned and said, “Wait—didn’t you buy a house?”

I froze, but only for a second or two. “It didn’t pass the inspection.”

“What was the problem?”

“A beam in the basement had shifted, and the whole foundation was unstable.” Nadine had once told me about other clients who’d made an offer on a house where the inspection had revealed this exact problem. The lie made me uncomfortable, but how could I explain to Charlie the chain of events that had led me to change my mind—how could I tell him about my mother and the investment scam before he met her and saw for himself that she was not flighty or flaky, and how could I possibly explain my family’s relationship to Pete Imhof ? I had never told either Wade Trommler or Simon Tornkvist about Andrew; particularly with Wade, I’d wondered if he’d find out on his own because I wasn’t the only person from Riley living in Madison, but as far as I knew, he hadn’t.

“That’s a bummer,” Charlie was saying.

“I guess it wasn’t meant to be.” We had reached the front of the line, and I began unloading our purchases. I had decided to make lentil salad to go with our steak that night, and Charlie had come with me to the co-op; apparently, he had never been inside, and as we’d entered, he’d said, “I had my suspicions you were a hippie.”

I set down the lentils and garlic and feta cheese, the walnuts and olive oil and fresh dill. Charlie was not looking at me when he said, “How much do you think it would cost to fix the foundation?”

“Oh—” I hesitated. We were, I sensed, approaching a delicate topic with many complicated subtopics. Two days earlier, at Charlie’s apartment, when I had carried my plate of steak from the kitchen into the living room, I had noticed on the living room table a typed check made out to Charles Blackwell for twenty thousand dollars. But it also was from Charles Blackwell—his name was printed in the upper-left-hand corner. I had never seen a check for anywhere close to that amount, and I couldn’t imagine what it was for, or what it meant that it was both to and from him. I did not touch it but scooted back on the couch, waiting for him to join me. When he did, carrying his own plate, he sat, flipped the check over without acknowledging it, and we continued the conversation we’d been having in the kitchen.

In the co-op, I said, “Fixing the foundation would probably be as much as buying the whole house. It’s not worth it.” The cashier started ringing us up, and behind us, the next customer was setting down her items. She was a slender woman around our age, wearing a short-sleeved blouse and a wraparound skirt, and she had the freckles and bright red hair that people never seem to like in themselves but that I’d always found quite charming.

“Was that your dream house, or were you so-so about it?” Charlie asked.

Trying to remain composed, I said, “I was so-so.” I couldn’t continue this conversation much longer, or I would start to cry. Not because losing the house had been devastating—I honestly hadn’t thought about it that much—but because this all felt so fraught and strange. If I said Please do buy the house for me, if you wouldn’t mind, would Charlie agree to it? I noticed then that the red-haired woman was buying the food you eat when you live alone: a box of cereal, a few apples, a plastic container of plain yogurt. As we waited for the cashier to tally our total, Charlie said, “I’m looking forward to our hippie salad,” and he leaned in and kissed my neck.

With an abrupt clarity, I saw how I had been launched into another category. I had been the red-haired woman; for a decade of my adult life, I had bought cereal and yogurt, I’d stood near couples and watched them nuzzle, and now I was part of such a couple. And I would not be launched back, I was nearly certain. But I recognized her life, I knew it so well! I wanted to clasp her freckled hand, to say to her—surely we understood some shared code (or surely not, surely she’d have thought me preposterous)—It’s good on the other side, but it’s good on your side, too. Enjoy it there. The loneliness is harder, and the loneliness is the biggest part; but some things are easier.

A FEW MONTHS back, Rita Alwin and I had bought tickets to see Romeo and Juliet at a small experimental theater, and when we went that week, we realized the experimental part was that all the actors were nude for the entire play. They also were not particularly skilled performers. Rita and I kept glancing at each other and giggling, and at intermission, she said, “Think we’ve seen enough?”

We went to get a glass of wine at a bar around the corner, and sitting across from me, Rita said, “Something’s different about you.”