Britta’s hand jolts in mine, both of us recognizing the man behind the desk at the same time. He’s the man from the parking lot who walked by with his briefcase while we came very close to making out. With her legs wrapped around my waist.
“You can relax,” he says, gesturing to the chairs in front of him. “I know the real deal when I see it.”
Britta’s chest dips with relief—and I’m glad about that, but I never had a moment of doubt. Mainly, the interviewer’s words continue to ring in my head as we go through the process of the interview, nailing every question.
I know the real deal when I see it.
And I wonder . . . what if Britta never does?
Chapter Five
BRITTA
September
Islide my key into my mailbox and open the slim metal door, narrowly catching the avalanche of envelopes before they end up on the floor.
Nine months into this expirationship, and I still haven’t quite mastered a technique for catching Sumner’s and my combined mail. Nor have I devised a way to block the catch in my throat every time I see his name on a white business envelope. Once every two weeks, I send a bundle to Edmonton, and even writing his name on the package makes me feel . . .
regretful.
Like I should have asked him to stay.
We text each other daily, but it’s not the same as seeing him face to face. Last night, he informed me he’d hurt his right wrist during the final day of training camp, and not being able to see that he was okay in person made me feel helpless. He’s returning to Bridgeport today, and I’m checking the impulse to show up at his house with ice cream and magazines, as if he’s suffered a traumatic injury that landed him in the ER. I might even sit through another showing of A Dog’s Purpose, if it made him feel better.
Freakishly wifely behavior.
You are his wife, Britta.
Yes. I am. He has a shiny new green card to show for it.
And I don’t think about our almost make-out session in the parking lot before the interview at all. I don’t think about the way he drew me up off the ground with his meaty forearm and offered to pretend we’re friends while he was nine deep and ringing my bell.
Like I don’t think about that on a nightly basis. At all.
I realize I’m staring down at the pile of mail in my arms and shake myself. Sumner might be coming home tonight, but I can’t dwell on it. I have concert tickets. My two best friends, Kelis and Trisha, who I’ve known since middle school, scored babysitters for their infants, and I’ve finally, finally convinced them to set aside the mom guilt and party like we used to. My shift is being covered at Sluggers. Just because I’m a part owner now doesn’t mean my bartending days are over—they’re still very much alive. And exhausting.
Which is why I’ve been looking forward to tonight for months.
A chance to blow off some steam. Reconnect with my friends.
On my way into my apartment, I happen to notice one piece of Sumner’s mail is a certain famous swimsuit edition of a sports magazine, a gorgeous woman on the cover tossing her hair provocatively. A stab of jealousy in the dead center of my throat catches me off guard. Is he going to . . . look at this? Does he wait for it to arrive every year?
Am I ridiculous to be jealous over a magazine when pornography is famously free on the internet? Yes. Especially when the jealousy pertains to my fake husband. It’s just that my stomach has been tied up in knots since he left.
That’s not how people feel about their friends.
We are friends.
That’s what I wanted.
No, want. Want.
Meaning, my breath shouldn’t catch in anticipation every time he texts me.
I hold out my hand so I can look at the golden band I haven’t taken off in months and—
My phone dings, distracting me. But it’s not Sumner; it’s Kelis.
I’m so sorry, Brit, the baby is sick. Picked up something at day care and gave it to the whole family. We’re plague ridden.
My shoulders sag, and I flop onto the couch, preparing to text her back. I’m disappointed that I won’t be able to see my best friend, but mostly I just feel sympathy.
Oh no! I’m—
Before I can finish my text, another one hits the group. From Trisha.
You got it, too, Kelis? We’re down for the count, too. Much puking. Fevers through the roof.
Can you give our tickets to someone else, Brit?
So so sorry. Was so excited for this.
Heat presses in behind my eyes, and I let the phone drop into my lap as I stare off into space. I’m a little ashamed of the way I feel. Let down.