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There was a party one night and I knew Monica and Luis would be there. As it happened earlier that day I saw her get herself a treat from the cafeteria. She brought it back to her room, she did that sometimes—I know, because I did watch her a lot. The last time I saw her, I was in the bathroom washing my face, getting ready for the party, when Monica walked in. She barely acknowledged me, stepped into one of the shower cubicles with her pink plastic bathroom bag and her fluffy slippers.
I went to the party but Monica didn’t. Luis was there, alone, looking forlorn. I stayed close to him all night. I plied him with Sangria in which I’d poured generous slugs of rum—isn’t that what we were supposed to do, us crazy college kids?—then I tried to kiss him but he gently pushed me away and slurred in my face, his eyebrows knotted together.
“I’m sorry, Anna. I just really love Monica.”
I giggled, slapped him on the chest playfully, said I hadn’t meant to kiss him anyway. He pretended to believe me, but the rejection left me feeling worse than I’d anticipated.
By the time I returned to my dorm there were ambulances outside and chaos in the corridor. Monica had eaten the wrong cake. Her Epipen was nowhere to be found. She’d lost it somewhere—was the conclusion—and hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
Luis was devastated, but I was right there. I comforted him, consoled him, talked to him softly late into the night, every night. I wrapped my arms around him and I never let go.
I was in love with Luis but he was with Monica. Then Monica ate a peanut and he was mine.
I watch them from the kitchen door, especially her. I can see her perfect profile from my vantage point. She’s laughing, tickling my children, and I think about Monica. She looked a bit like Isabelle: the blonde hair, the wide smile, the blue eyes. He has a type, my husband, and ironically, I’m not that type. I find myself imagining that I’m watching another family. That Luis is married to someone else, someone like Monica, or Isabelle. That this is a regular Friday night dinner. They look beautiful, the four of them. Like a perfect family tableau and suddenly it’s too much and I have to look away.
“Anyway, I don’t know why we’re talking about all that,” I say when I return, even though no one’s talking about all that. They’re too busy laughing. I set down the cheesecake more abruptly than I’d meant to and everyone stops. Luis looks up at me, frowning.
“I’m just so glad we finally got to meet properly,” I say to Isabelle, trying to reinsert myself back into my own family. Somehow Luis gets the message because he calms the kids down and cuts the cheesecake while Isabelle runs both hands through her gorgeous hair which got all messed up in all the fun they were having. She closes her eyes, slowly shakes her head and lets her hair fall perfectly back in place. It’s like watching one of those slow-motion shampoo commercials.
Later, when the children have gone to their rooms and Luis is in the kitchen loading the dishwasher, Isabelle says, “You have a beautiful family, Anna. You’re very lucky.”
“Thank you.” But I want to tell her it’s not just luck, it’s hard work. That a family is like a fortress you have to defend all the time. And you can’t relax because there’s always someone trying to get in, always someone looking for a breach. Someone pretty, someone pretending to be nice, someone just like her.
Luis returns and offers coffee and I flick my eyes up at him. I’m a bit annoyed he interrupted our conversation just when she was saying we were a beautiful family. I say no to coffee and pour myself another glass of wine.
“Hey, babe, maybe you should slow down.” I look at him with narrowed eyes. I want to ask him to please not embarrass me, but I don’t. I just smile tightly. “I’m okay.”
“You said you wanted to prepare for your big talk. You asked me to—”
“Yes, all right, thank you Luis.” I turn to Isabelle. “I’m delivering a lecture next week where I will present my proof of the Pentti-Stone, the conjecture I solved. It’s organized by the Leo Forrester Foundation. They’re the ones who award the prize that I won. It’s kind of a big deal. A very big deal. No one solved it before. Which makes sense, right? Anyway, I’m the first. The only.” I’m slurring my words, vaguely aware how childish I sound and that I should shut up now, but I can’t.
“Yes, I know,” she says. “And it’s truly impressive. You must be very proud.”
“Yes, I am. Thank you. And so is Luis. Aren’t you, Luis?” And Luis says, “What?” and I say, “Proud of me?” and he says, “What for?” And I laugh and slap him playfully on the arm and say, “Never mind!” and turn back to face Isabelle. She’s folding her napkin neatly, brushing it flat and folding it again and if I didn’t hate her so much, that would earn her a point in my book.
“I really should go,” she says.
We all get up, unsteadily in my case, and say goodbye. Luis helps Isabelle with her coat. It’s funny, but he seems almost relieved that she’s leaving, and she seems almost detached. Certainly not that friendly. They behave like colleagues, not like lovers, and I don’t know anything anymore. Is it possible that I was wrong? I kick myself now, because I should have asked her when he was out of the room whether there’s someone called Belle who works at the gallery. Maybe all this time I’ve been focused on the wrong person.
But when she turns to slip her arm into the sleeve of her coat, I catch a glint at her throat and I know. There is no other Belle. They’re just playing it cool for my benefit. And I’m such an idiot that it’s almost working.
“This is pretty,” I say, reaching literally inside her collar for the delicate gold chain, trying not to scratch at her throat. It sits below the neckline of her woolen dress. I bet that’s why she chose that dress, so she could wear it in secret. A secret between her and my husband. And the joke’s on me.
She looks down. “This? Yes, isn’t it?”
“Was it a gift?” I ask, my heart bouncing around my chest.
She has the gall to glance at Luis as she replies, “Yes, it was a gift.” Then, after a beat, she adds: “From Patrick.” And I have to walk away to stop myself from doing something I won’t regret, like sticking a fork into her pretty neck.
Luis pops his head in through the kitchen door to say he will walk Isabelle back to her car. I nod, unable to speak, give a small cough to hide it.
“I’ll finish in here,” I say finally, clearing my throat. “Goodbye, Isabelle,” I sort of shout out.
She too pops her head through the door. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Anna.”
“You’re welcome!” I say, then under my breath I add, “Not,” because I am a child. Then I wait until they’re gone to sprint up the stairs so I can watch them.
It was supposed to be a guest bedroom, this room, but we use it as a storage space now, mostly for the children. It still has a bed, which is covered with god knows what: sports things they don’t use anymore like hockey clubs and Carla’s little tutus that I packed in crêpe paper and inside silk lined suitcases. I squeeze past Luis’s old speakers and step over boxes of DVDs and guitar cases and hit my toe on a kettle bell. When I reach the window, I stand just off to the side of it, in the dark, and lift the edge of the drape with one finger.
