“Oh.” I glance down the street, where Sam’s Highlander is parked. “We could give you a ride home, if you’d like.”

Sam’s eyes fly open, but thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut. This woman is pregnant with our child—I’m not letting her wander the city late at night.

Monica’s cheeks color. “Oh, I don’t want to take you out of your way.”

“No, we insist,” I say. “You don’t live that far from us. It’s no trouble.”

I look at Sam for confirmation and he reluctantly nods.

So instead of making out with my husband on the streets of Manhattan on the night of our anniversary, we all trudge back to the Toyota to head back home. Which is fine. I guess.

But here’s the weird part: when Sam unlocks the doors to the car with his key fob, Monica immediately jumps into the shotgun seat. Considering we’re giving her a ride, that seems odd to me. I’m Sam’s wife—I should be the one sitting next to him. Technically this is his car because it’s in his name, but he bought it with money from our joint bank account. And since I earn way more money than he does, that means, in a way, this car is more mine than his. In any case, it’s more mine than Monica’s.

How could she sit in the front seat?

I fume about it for a minute, but there’s nothing I can do. Sam is the one driving, so I have no choice but to get into the back seat. I know it’s a small thing, but it makes me uncomfortable. When I look at Sam and Monica sitting up in front, they seem very much like they could be a couple. On top of that, she’s pregnant with his child. On so many levels, Monica and Sam make more sense than Sam and I do. Yes, she’s over ten years younger than he is, but so what? Men marry much younger women all the time.

I’m beginning to feel like a third wheel back here. I hope Sam drives fast.

We drive in awkward silence for about five minutes. I’m good at small talk, but what sort of conversation do you make with the woman who’s carrying your baby in her uterus? Have you thought of any names for the child you’re giving us? Nothing brilliant is coming to me. It isn’t until we’re stopped at a red light in front of a movie theater that Monica exclaims: “Oh my gosh! The new Quentin Tarantino movie is out!”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. Quentin Tarantino is one of his favorite directors and we’ve already made plans to see the movie this weekend. “You like Quentin Tarantino?”

“Uh huh.” She nods eagerly. “My favorite is Pulp Fiction.”