have all of that vacation time you haven’t used.”
My eyes rove over the bedroom furniture, the whitewashed woods, and rustic baskets. Maybe a change of scenery is exactly what I need. I haven’t felt myself lately.
“But where will I stay?”
“Hold on a sec...” His voice is muffled as I hear someone on his end say something to him, then he comes back on the line.
“I have to go. I’ll book a room at the Dossier. See you tomorrow?”
I want to ask him about Monday and Tuesday, if he plans on ditching them for me, but he’s in a rush.
“I’m so excited,” I say. “Tomorrow. Love you.”
“Love you, too, baby.” And then he hangs up.
I call work straightaway and arrange to have three of my shifts covered, and then I call my stylist, who says she’s had a cancellation and can see me in an hour. Two hours later, I am home with a fresh color and cut, and heading to my closet to pack. I don’t remember the paper I found or Hannah Ovark until I go looking for my MacBook, which I plan on taking with me. I slump onto the sofa and stare at the screen, at the evidence of my stalking. My main screen is still open to Facebook, her smiling face staring up at me. It feels different to be doing this in the light of day, more deliberate and sneaky. I hesitate, my mouse hovering over her profile. Once I have information about her I can’t go back; it will be there imprinted in my mind forever. I click on her profile, holding my breath, but when the screen loads, I see she has everything set to private. Frowning, I close the browser and shut down my computer.
Hannah is more of a supermodel than a laid-back surfer. Her lips are full and perfect and she has the type of cheekbones you only see on Scandinavian models.
The next morning I wake up still thinking about Hannah. I try to clear my mind of her face as I carry my overnight bag down to the carport. But at the last moment, I take the elevator back upstairs and retrieve the paper from my nightstand, tucking it into the deepest, most hidden pocket of my wallet. Just in case I need her address. But why would you need it? I ask myself as I buckle my seat belt and pull out of the carport.
Just in case... Just in case I want to see what she looks like in real life. Just in case I want to have a conversation with her. That type of just in case. It is my right, isn’t it? To know who I am sharing my husband with? Perhaps I am tired of wondering.
The drive to Portland is around two hours if the traffic gods are feeling generous. I roll my window all the way down and turn up the music. When my hair is a tangled mess, I decide to give the music a break and phone my best friend, Anna, instead. Anna moved to Venice Beach a few months ago for a guy she met online.
“That’s great that you’re going to see him,” she says. “Did you buy some new lingerie?”
“I didn’t!” I say. “But good thinking. I can stop downtown and pick something up. Should I go with sexy trashy, or sexy beautiful?”
“Definitely trashy. Men like to think they’re fucking a slut.”
I laugh at how crass she is.
“Hey,” she says when there’s a lull in the conversation. “How have you been since—”
“Fine,” I snap. I cut her off before she can say any more. I don’t want to go there today. Today Seth and I are having a sexy getaway. “Listen, I have to go. Just pulling into the hotel now. Call you next week?”
“Sure,” she responds, but she doesn’t sound so sure. That’s Anna, always worrying. We went to high school together and were roommates in college. When I first introduced her to Seth, she loved him, but then gradually something changed between them, her attitude turning distinctly sour. Like everyone else in my life, I chose to keep our true lives a secret from her, so Anna has no idea about the others. I figured he lost his glamour once she got to know him, and she changed her mind. Anna and I have very different tastes in men, and I hardly ever like her boyfriends, so how could I blame her for not liking my husband?
I park my car myself, avoiding the valet so I can slip out before Seth arrives and grab something sexy from one of the department stores. Hannah’s photo looms in my mind. It’s no wonder Seth didn’t want me to know anything about her. Once I’ve checked into the hotel room, I study my face in the mirror, wondering what it is that Seth sees in me. I’ve always thought myself to be mildly attractive, sort of in the girl-next-door kind of way. But if you had a woman like Hannah, why would you go for a woman with boring brown hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose? I have a nice figure—my chest has been a focal point for men since I was sixteen—but I’m not tall, or slender, or graceful by any means. My hips are round and so is my rear. Seth, a self-proclaimed ass man, always reaches around to grope my backside when we hug. He always makes me feel sexy and beautiful—until I saw Hannah, that is. He’s either a man of diverse taste or he’s just gathering wives for the heck of it. Seeing Hannah’s picture makes me curious about Tuesday, but there’s no way Seth would tell me her name. He’d be angry enough knowing I snooped on his pregnant Portland wife.
Glancing at my watch, I see that it’s lunchtime. I decide to drive over to the Nordstrom in the city and grab some lunch while I’m there. Portland is more low-key than Seattle, which is a crisscross of one-way streets and fast-limbed pedestrians. I have little trouble navigating the tight lanes of the city and parking in a garage a block away from the department store. I find a black lace bra and panty duo and pick out a sheer robe to wear over it, and carry the items to the register.
“Anything else I can get for you today?” the saleslady asks, walking around the register to hand me my purchase.
“Yes,” I hear myself say. “Can you tell me how far Galatia Lane is? I’m not from around here.”
“Oh,” she says. “It’s just on the outskirts of the city. About four miles. Cute little street, has those beautiful restored Victorian houses.”
“Hmm,” I say, pressing my lips together in a smile. “Thank you.”
I drive there straightaway, then pull over, the tires grating along the curb. I dip my head to eye the houses, my hands still gripping the steering wheel. It isn’t too late to leave. It is as simple as shifting the car into Drive and not looking back. I tap a finger as I decide, my eyes darting from house to house. I’m already here—what is the damage in having a look around? Even if Hannah Ovark isn’t Monday, this neighborhood is beautiful. Leaving my Nordstrom bag in the front seat, I step out of the car and walk along the shaded pavement, eyeing the houses in wonder. They look like gingerbread houses: broad turrets, window boxes, white picket fencing, each one painted the color of a childhood fantasy. A soft pink, a Tiffany blue—there’s even a house that is the color of mint chocolate chip ice cream, the shutters a rich brown. I remember the feel of the frozen chips of chocolate wedged between teeth, the way you’d suck at a tooth to loosen their hold. A neighborhood of nostalgia. How perfectly annoying that Monday would live here. I think of my condo downtown, stacked on top of a dozen others, people living vertically in little spaces in the sky. No magic, no mint chocolate chip paint, just long elevator rides and city views. I wonder what life would be like living in a place like this. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I walk right past number 324 and have to backtrack.
Hannah’s house is cream-colored with a matte black door. There are green shutters on the windows and flower boxes that hold
