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The honey glazed duck glistened on the stovetop as it cooled. Nicole felt a subtle jump in her chest; her lips twisted into a subtle smile. She reached back, gripped her glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, and lifted it toward the small antique mirror in the corner where she caught the reflection of herself, still in just a bra and a pair of pants, her thick hair propped up in a ponytail, her eyes alight. She’d done it. She had made a four-course meal. And according to Michael’s schedule, she had done it just in the nick of time. He would return home in the next ten to fifteen minutes.
Nicole made her way toward the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. On either side, portraits of her kids at various stages smiled back: Abby as a toddler on a little rocking horse; Nate in his hockey uniform; Abby and Nate on horseback when they’d taken that trip to Mount Desert Island all those years ago (and purposefully did not reach out to her family there. Nicole, Casey, and Heather had promised one another that that side of the family was gone for good). At the very top, Abby’s senior photo glistened with the last of the evening light. Nicole straightened the photo, heaved a sigh, and then headed into her bedroom. Already, her stomach quaked with panic for whatever would come next— her kids at college and she and Michael as empty-nesters. Perhaps they would find their love again. Perhaps they would start a fresh new chapter together.
Nicole stood wide-legged in front of her and Michael’s walk-in closet. On one side, his shirts hung, pre-ironed by her on a recent rainy Saturday. On the other, Nicole’s wide selection of dresses hung in an array of dark greens and navys and blacks. As a marketing executive, it was often up to her to wine and dine clientele. She was good at it— good at providing a witty response, acting half-flirtatious in the name of capital gains.
The dress nearer to the front was one she’d recently purchased on a shopping outing with Heather and Casey. She’d bought it purposefully for Michael’s birthday. It curved beautifully over her breasts, squeezed tight at her waist, and then brushed out gently over her thighs. She’d had two babies, and her stomach would never return to the flatness of the early days— but surprisingly, Michael had never mentioned this. In Casey’s words, “A size four isn’t anything to scoff at, Nic.” Still, she struggled not to see herself through Michael’s eyes.
With her dress zipped, she hustled to her armoire mirror and prepared her face: a delicate swoop of foundation, brown eyeshadow with the slightest glint, mascara that made her eyes doe-like and enormous. She leaned back and inspected herself, just as her phone buzzed with a photo of Heather, Max, Kristine, and Bella— all posed together, a family selfie.
HEATHER: Thank you for celebrating the publishing of the book today.
HEATHER: You mean the world to us, and Michael is so lucky to have you.
HEATHER: Happy birthday to him, and we love you!
Nicole held back her tears. She removed her ponytail, rustled out her hair, and took a selfie in response, swiftly sending it back to her sister.
NICOLE: Did I overdo it for a forty-year-old?
HEATHER: What! No way. You look hot, sis! Michael won’t know what hit him.
Nicole made her way downstairs, where she’d already set the table. She grabbed a lighter, flicked it over the candles, and watched as they glimmered, reflecting their light in the window just beyond. Still, that window held only darkness, even as Nicole expected Michael’s car headlights to flash up from the road.
Nicole sipped her wine and held herself over the counter. After a few minutes more, she returned some of the dinner items to the oven, which had now cooled enough that it wouldn’t cook the food more. She buzzed her lips, played her fingers over her phone, and then deleted her question to Michael, which was just: Are you okay? Hope to see you soon.
He hated it when she asked about where he was or what he’d been doing. Even back in college, when they had first met, he hadn’t been particularly keen about such things. “Why do you have to know where I am every minute of every day?” He’d asked exactly once when Nicole had caught him outside of class when he was meant to be in History 430. She hadn’t wanted to sound intrusive. He’d just caught her by surprise. Even still, the memory burned into the back of her mind forever.
A few times over the years, Casey and Heather had suggested that Nicole wasn’t in the greatest relationship. Nicole had scoffed at this. After all, she was in a high-powered position as a marketing executive, brought in nearly the same amount of money as Michael, and had a great deal of respect across the Portland community. It was only behind closed doors and within the occasional stories she whispered to Heather and Casey, that anything went sideways.
But she loved him. Gosh, she did. She’d first spotted Michael Baxter outside of her dorm at the University of Maine in Orono. A navy blue sweatshirt had hung loosely over his broad shoulders, and he’d gripped a football in one hand as he had instructed a buddy to run out through the quad and prepare to catch. At the time, Nicole had whispered to a friend, “Who is that?” She no longer remembered who that friend was. Michael had introduced himself only a day or two later, and she’d fallen instantly for him— so much so that she had lost contact with any initial friends she’d made on campus. She and Michael had moved in together her sophomore year, and they’d married when she turned twenty-one and he twenty-three.
“Well, that was a whirlwind,” Aunt Tracy had said at the time.
Almost as though she’d summoned her, Aunt Tracy texted now.
AUNT TRACY: How’s Michael’s birthday going? Did he get my card?
Aunt Tracy never forgot a birthday. Like Nicole’s mother, Jane, she was inherently kind, considerate, regardless of whatever feelings lurked behind her eyes. Perhaps Aunt Tracy didn’t particularly like Michael. She’d never verbalized these emotions. In the state of Maine, people were left to their own devices. Judgment was passed behind closed doors, rather than overtly, face-to-face.
Michael was now an hour and a half late. The honeyed duck was a grim lukewarm. Nicole placed the salad, the duck, the cheesecake dessert, and the mashed potatoes in the fridge, with cling wrap over the top of each. She poured herself another glass of wine and leaned heavily over the counter. The clothes she’d donned made her feel all the more ridiculous: just a sad housewife in overly expensive garb.
Nicole grabbed her phone and struggled not to call Michael. Instead, she investigated one of his co-worker’s social media pages. Ah-ha. Jason had posted photos of Michael from earlier that evening at a nearby ritzy cocktail bar. In the photo, Michael had his arm around Jason and another of their co-workers, Greg. His smile was electric, his lips open wide as though he was in the midst of protesting the photograph. Surrounding them, other office employees beamed up at Michael. He’d always been the light of the party. Women and men were captivated by him.
At ten-thirty, Nicole slipped into the little green chair near the television. The still-black screen reflected her image— a glass of wine lifted, eyes shiny. Michael was still with his friends; that much was clear. And why shouldn’t he be? At forty-two, hadn’t he earned a night out? Nicole couldn’t remember the last time she’d stayed out so late without calling. Still, women were different. They had alternate responsibilities. You could pretend that wasn’t true all-day— fight for women’s rights as much as you wanted to, but it was still true; if women didn’t bother to clean the bathroom or put dinner on the table, it quite often just wouldn’t get done.
Well, that’s the way her life went, anyway. She had seen both Casey’s husband, Grant, and Heather’s husband, Max, with aprons tied around their waists, up to their elbows in oil and sauce.
At eleven, two bright lights penetrated the front windows. The garage door buzzed open. Nicole rushed toward the fridge to grab the duck and the mashed potatoes. She snapped on the oven again. Perhaps if she hustled, she could heat everything up again.
But all too soon, Michael appeared in the little dark hallway between the garage and the kitchen. There was the thwack-thwack of him kicking off his office shoes, the black ones handmade in Italy. Nicole shut the fridge closed again, drew her shoulders back, then performed a smile as he appeared, all six-foot-four of him, broad shoulders and thick eyebrows. Often when he entered, he brought with him a wave of arrogance that affected the air of the room.
“There she is. My beautiful wife.” He said it in a sing-song voice. Was he teasing her?
“Hi. Happy birthday.” She stepped toward him and planted a kiss on his cheek. Did he smell like something a bit different? Something lurked behind his cologne. Oh, but he’d been at the bar, basically a zoo of various smells.
Michael glanced toward the buzzing oven and the honeyed duck and the mashed potatoes. He clucked his tongue.
“I see you went all out.” He didn’t sound pleased.
“I wanted to make it special for your day,” she told him.
Michael’s right cheek twitched. “I told you to just make dinner reservations.”
Nicole wanted to protest. Ask him how that would have worked, given the fact that he hadn’t left his friends till eleven at night. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and collapsed on the same chair Nicole had spent the previous few hours in. The crack of the beer was overly loud.
“So you aren’t hungry?” Nicole asked. “Do you want a slice of cake at least?”
Michael didn’t respond for a minute. He sipped his beer and seemed to regard the strange, amorphous reflection of the living room and kitchen in the black television screen. That was their life, the one they’d built.
“I take this to mean you still have delusions of going off to cooking school one day,” Michael shot then.
Nicole’s heart dropped into her stomach. “Really, Michael? Why is that so irrational to you?”
“It is irrational, Nicole. You’re forty years old. Isn’t it time to acknowledge that the career you have is the only career you’ll have?”
Nicole drank the rest of her glass of wine. She wanted to forget already. Why did he have to be so cruel?
“Don’t you at least want to try it?” she asked, her voice breaking. “I’ve worked on it all day.”
Michael chortled. “I take it you took the day off?”
Nicole was silent. Michael guzzled the rest of his beer and then demanded another. Nicole entered the fridge, grabbed a Coors, and placed it in his outstretched hand. She loved him; she’d told him she would love him all the days of her life. Why couldn’t he look at her? What did he see when he really looked at her? Hadn’t she birthed two of his babies? Hadn’t she cared for him when he was sick? Hadn’t she called his doctor over and over again during last year’s prostate health scare— demanding attention until he gave it?
To her surprise, Michael’s head dropped back a moment later. A snore rose out of his throat. She leaped forward to grab the can of beer before the liquid cascaded across his chest. She half-thought about drinking it herself but hadn’t had an actual beer in ten years. The carbs went straight to her belly.
Nicole studied Michael’s face as he slept. His lips were parted; his eyelashes fluttered. Although he was still handsome in sleep, there was something so weak about him. So boy-like, despite his forty-two years. Nicole had read an article in Reader’s Digest about a woman who’d killed her abusive husband in his sleep. The story had horrified Nicole. Why did she think of it now?
“We have to think the worst-possible things sometimes,” Heather had said once. “Doesn’t mean we have to act on them.”
Michael’s phone lay on the armrest. Just now, it lit up and vibrated. Nicole glanced at it, noted the time, 11:47 and the person who’d texted.
Michelle.
Michelle? The name rang a bell. Nicole inhaled sharply as the screen went black. She hadn’t dared read anything more. Wasn’t Michelle one of the secretaries at Michael’s law firm? Michelle and Michael. The names were so similar. Probably, Michael got a kick out of that.
Why did she text him at 11:47 at night on his birthday?
Nicole’s stomach tied itself in knots. She stepped back into the kitchen and poured herself another glass of wine. Her head swam with the events of the day— her emotional decision to stay home from work to make a four-course French meal. Heather’s incredible success and the love Max had for her reflected back in his eyes. Her children, who’d raced off to friends’ houses per her request, so that she and their father could have a “romantic” night for his birthday.
What had she done all this for? Was she a fool?
Before she could stop herself, Nicole swept forward, grabbed Michael’s phone, and read what text she could beneath that name, Michelle.
She didn’t know Michael’s phone’s passcode but what she saw told her everything she needed to know.
MICHELLE: I miss you so much when you go away, baby.