Was a lot of things. Not anymore.

Thanks to my husband, people didn’t just forgive J.R., they groveled. Acquaintances scrambled to offer testimonials of unwavering faith, even though they were the very same gossips who’d said, You know, I always thought there was something off about that guy, when they first read the headline: “PROMINENT LOCAL ACCUSED OF SEXUALLY ASSAULTING TEEN BABYSITTER.” Oh, their faith had wavered all right.

J.R. surprised us all with his arrogance, though. Spectacular show. Went on a crusade against the police department, threatening to sue for defamation but winning in the all-important Court of Public Approval before filing the suit, which was only ever a bluff anyway. Such a claim would have been dismissed out of hand.

As for Mrs. Missy Voss—well, she’s just enough of a dolt to tolerate him, but smart enough to make it work in her favor. She gets sympathy now and recently treated herself to a week in Rome, “just to get away.” People called it self-care, but Missy Voss doesn’t get my sympathy. She’s getting my vacations, isn’t that enough? I’m the one who should be gorging myself on antipasto in Trastevere with the love of my life. I did everything right. I married a good man who did not sexually assault our teenage babysitter, yet somehow I’m the one who’s being punished. The universe is a cunning little bitch.

“These rolls smell like India, don’t they?” I ask Graham, encouraging him to dwell on the past, too. We had so much power and freedom. We had fun. “They remind me of Sri Lanka as well, but Birgitta says the recipe is from family of hers in Norway. Isn’t that something? They’re heavenly, aren’t they?” I stroke Graham’s face, thinking, Fuck you, darling.

Ah, there it is, the pesky bastard: a recurring thought molded into a vice. My secret habit. I take another hit: Fuck you, sweetheart, for becoming a different person overnight, for smoking cigars and working too hard and eating too much red meat, for going to the doctor once a year instead of twice, for not keeping a cell phone in your pocket, for not considering how a disaster might affect me, your wife, the woman who tolerated your endless hours at the office because you promised me—you promised—it would all pay off right about now. I’ll keep loving you, of course, but now you’ve forced me to hate you, too, so I’ll keep loving you and hating you under my skin, forever and ever. Forgive me, my darling. I really am doing my best.

“Are you ready for a little supper?” I ask aloud.

He makes a sound.

“Good.” I stand and help him rise to his feet. “Let’s fire up the grill.”

5.