Planned obsolescence. I can see what’s happening here. What a surprise to realize my husband is not the first man in the church to bring home a new young wife shortly after being recently widowed. I’ve learned about seven cases in the neighborhood so far. One of the wives died like June, two have committed suicide and the other four simply disappeared.

What I intend to find out for sure, before my gravy train runs out, is just how much Tom knows. As soon as the time is right, I have every intention of a confrontation. In the meantime, I need to safe guard my future. More than anything, I’d like a taste of the settled in, married life, I’m always hearing about.

When Tom calls me from work a few days later, and I detect blatant anger in his voice, I think the time has come to go toe-to-toe. “Pack a bag,” he tells me. Those three words put the brakes on things.

“Why?”

“Melanie,” he says with a heavy sigh. I hear the exhaustion in his voice. It’s the opposite of what a vacation is supposed to feel like. This doesn’t sound like the Tom I know, so calm, so sure of himself. “I’m going to give you a set of instructions and I need you to listen to me. This is serious.”

“How serious?”

“Don’t leave the house, serious.”

I wait for him to go on.

“We’re taking a trip, serious.”

For Tom to do anything spur of the moment, I know he’s right. To him, this is serious. To me, it sounds like an adventure. “What should I pack?”

“Lightly. That’s all that matters. We don’t want to raise any red flags.”

All of a sudden, this is starting to sound like a bad movie.

“Can you at least give me a clue? What can I expect— temperature-wise?”

“I haven’t decided.”

I think he’s lying. With my husband, everything is decided. “What if I need to go shopping?”

“You can shop when we get there. In the meantime, don’t pay anyone any visits, don’t answer the door, close the blinds, make it look like no one is home, and whatever you do, do not leave the house.”

“Jesus. You’re not—”

“I have some things to take care of here at the office,” he says cutting me off. “And then I’ll be home.”

I stare out the window. I think he’s lost his mind.

“Oh, and Melanie—”

“Yeah?”

“For God’s sake, don’t post anything to social media.”

When I hang up the phone, I realize this must have something to do with Instalook. Tom hates social media so I’m not surprised. I open the app and scan my profile to see what could have pissed him off. Sometimes Beth posts for me. She says I’m still getting the hang of it, and when you’re building something, momentum is important.

Sure enough, Beth has posted three photos on my account. One of new shoes, a photo of some weird looking food that only a tiny bird could find appetizing, and a photo of me in a yoga pose she snapped last week. She isn’t all wrong. My profile has grown by twelve hundred followers in three days. She assures me this is good. I say there should be more. I’m half-dressed in most of the shots. She says this helps with the momentum of things.

That’s when I see it. The shot I took of Vanessa’s “vitamins.” My breath catches in my throat. A lump forms around it. I hadn’t meant to post that, as Beth would say, I’m still getting the hang of it. This reminds me I never did look up the ingredients.

First things first—I delete the photo from Instalook. It doesn’t match with my theme or color scheme. Beth is always getting onto me about this. She drones on and on about aesthetics and how important they are to my target demographic. I bet she finally mentioned this to Tom, and that’s why he’s insisted on the trip. She must have convinced him I need something interesting. Probably something to match my color scheme. You’re selling an image, she’s always saying. I hope for my sake the image she’s going for now happens to be exotic. I could really do for a turquoise beach. I mentioned this to Tom. But he only knows work. That’s why it’s nice to have someone else do your bidding. Someone like Beth. Surely, my husband will understand. It feels nice to use a trick from his playbook.

I scan my phone for a photo to upload so Beth can see I’m doing my job. If it needs to be on the teal side of the color chart, then so be it. Maybe this will help Tom with his destination decision. I know how much my husband wants Beth’s approval. As I’m scrolling through the photos in my album the shot of Vanessa’s vitamins catches my eye.

I must know. I open Google and type in the first ingredient into the search bar: sodium fluoride.

What I come up with is a whole host of articles. Apparently, especially in large quantities, sodium fluoride is a neurotoxin. I don’t know what constitutes as large but I know Vanessa mentioned she takes three capsules, three times a day. I could barely remember to take my birth control pill, I’d said. She told me she lives and dies by her alarm.

Crazy, I’d said.

But the more I read, the more I realize it could have something to do with what she’s taking. According to the internet, sodium fluoride effects memory, IQ and a whole host of other things. Several articles cite that it causes calmness and complacency. Who knows what’s fake news these days and yet this could explain why Vanessa acts dumbed-down, more like a robot than a person. Surely, this has to explain why she cooks and cleans and child-rears to her heart’s content. I don’t know anyone in their right mind who would sign up for that kind of boring life.

I spend the morning packing my suitcase and organizing many of my new things. I don’t want to bring along too much, otherwise my husband will think I don’t have a reason to shop. Things have been good between us lately; the last thing I want is a fight. Especially since I can’t be sure he won’t replace me. There’s a lot riding on this. I haven’t yet secured an upgrade, nor do I have a significant enough investment to warrant the kind of divorce settlement I’d need to sustain this kind of lifestyle. Plus, I like it here. I finally have something I’ve wanted my whole life. Friends. I haven’t managed to mess it up yet, and I don’t plan to anytime soon. I have a bestie now, thanks to Beth, and the other women are starting to look up to me. But there’s another issue too. A bigger one. I think I might actually feel something for Tom.

I’ve been practicing. I’ve been praying about it. There’s a method to my madness.

By the early afternoon, after I’ve packed and internet researched Vanessa’s problems, and Tom still isn’t home, I dig out his and June’s wedding album. He keeps it at the top of his closet. I flip through the photos just as I do most every day. This one is no different. I realize I want that. Then I pray. I breathe in and out. I do what they call meditation. Then I pause and pray some more. I tell myself, if I can love him for one minute, then I can make myself love him for two, and if I can love him for two, I can love him for three, and if I can love him for three, I can love him forever. I tell myself I can feel something. Something for real, something like love, and in this moment, even that seems insurmountable.

It goes like this: Me. A bottle. Ghosts. Reminders. Mementos. Truth. This is how the majority of my days unfold in this house, in this stupid neighborhood, on this stupid idyllic street. I shuffle my way through the wedding album. This causes me to pull from my secret stash of scotch. Sometimes I only go for wine. Scotch is what I reach for when I’m not messing around. This feels like the good old days. Then I get this itch, I can’t stop. It helps if I do another shot and then another. I keep trying to satisfy it, trying to make it go away. But eventually, it gets so bad I have to scratch it, and this is when I log in to June’s computer, still in its place, like so many other artifacts. I click on the icon she had on her desktop, the one with all their family photos. I don’t stop until I get to their wedding video. It looks nothing like ours. It’s like picking a scab. I never feel the pain. I just want it to scar so I have proof. This is why I keep going back.

Who am I kidding? Tom will never love me the way he loved you, I say to the screen. I say this to her, her in his heart, her with her eyes wide and full of glee. Her on the walls. Her everywhere. In the video, she throws her head back and laughs. She’s taunting me. She knows.

This makes me know too. I’ll be the first to admit, I don’t know my husband that well. But I know a few things. He could never have killed June himself. He wasn’t looking for a replacement when he found me— he was making a mistake. He was looking for a distraction.

I know enough to know that he’ll never love me like he should. He’ll never love me the way I want to love him.

By late afternoon, I’m passed out on the couch. I awaken to the robot vacuum powering itself on. I sit up slowly. My mouth is dry and I’m in proper need of a glass of water. Brushing the hair from my eyes, I glance out the front window, trying to assess how long I’ve been out. I notice there’s something in the street and then as I lean closer toward the window, I see it isn’t something, but rather someone. A little boy on a tricycle. In the middle of the street. Surely, his mother is nearby. I move toward the window. The street is mostly deserted. No one seems to notice there’s a child in the street. I realize I’m either still dreaming, or I’m more inebriated than I thought.

I force myself from the sofa and make my way to the door, where I pause to check my disheveled appearance in the mirror that hangs in the entryway. I know Tom asked me to stay in. But there’s the kid. I look terrible, and I can’t very well let the neighbors see me like this. I go back to the window to check again. The kid is still there. Damn it.

What if Tom hits him on his way in the drive? He’s low enough to the ground that he may not even see him. If this happens, we’ll have to cancel our trip. I walk to the door and place my hand on the knob. I check myself in the mirror once more, leaning in to wipe away the mascara that’s smudged under my eyes. I straighten my top. At least I’m wearing the workout gear Beth suggested. This way if I get to be on the news for saving a kid, she’ll be extra happy to see I’m promoting her favorite brand. I’m an influencer now, she says. If we want the other women of New Hope to look and feel their best, it’s up to us to set an example. God forbid, they should think for themselves.

Whatever. Maybe I could even get a good selfie with the kid and the sunset in the background. Everything is about lighting, Beth assures me. Imagine the likes I could get for saving someone’s life.

“Hey,” I call to the kid when I’m halfway across the yard. “You’re in the street.”

He looks at me, his big brown eyes wide.

“What’s your name?” I don’t recognize him. I ask where he lives. He points. His nose is snotty. “What’s your name?” I ask again.

This time he answers, but it’s gibberish. I assume this means he’s not old enough to talk. At least not coherently. I’m having a hard time myself. “How old are you?”

I shield my eyes from the sun. He holds up two fingers. Proudly.

“Where do you live?”

He looks one way and then another.

Finally, he points to a wooded area down the lane. “Deer,” he says.

He has no idea.

“Don't worry, kid,” I tell him. “You and I, we’re in the same boat.”

“Here,” I say lifting his tricycle and pointing it in the other direction. “Let’s get you out of the street.”

I ask him once again where he lives. He points. I ask him to take me there. “Take me to your toys,” I plead. I have a plane to catch and planes don’t wait. Tom will be home soon, and I know how much he hates tardiness. The last thing I want is to fight on vacation. So this has to work. If it doesn’t, I’m going to be forced to set him on someone’s doorstep, where I’ll ring the bell and run. Except everyone has cameras these days, and I can’t have the neighbors thinking I’m irresponsible. I don’t know much about kids, but I know he’s a male one and nothing stands between men and their toys. “Your toys, “I say. “Where are they?’

It takes forty-five minutes, but he finally proves my point when we find his home a block over. He waltzes right up and rings the bell. His father, or who I presume to be his father answers. Like mine, his hair is disheveled. The kid caught him by surprise too.

“You,” he says, rubbing his face. “How’d you get out there?”

“He was in the street,” I say and suddenly, I’m angry. His child was in the street, and he was sleeping. The boy could have been killed or kidnapped, and he was sleeping. Everyone knows parents don’t get to sleep. “You might want to keep an eye on your kid.”

The guy opens the door wider, and I watch as the little boy toddles in. His father looks at me, yawns and says, “thanks” before promptly slamming the door in my face.

I walk through the front door to find I have five missed calls from Tom, one from Beth, and two from an unknown number.

I set the phone down. I can’t deal with either of them right now. The search and rescue mission has worn me out. I fill a glass with water. The little boy’s face flashes in my mind. I have to admit, he was kind of cute. For a split second, I wonder what it would have been like to have kept him. You know, like finders, keepers. It must be the liquor talking. That or all of the family photos. It must be the nostalgia of Tom and June’s stupid memories that’s causing my sudden neediness. Whatever the case, his parents really should be more careful. If you ask me, it seems like a simple way of going about getting a kid. All you have to do is find one whose parents aren’t looking, and bam, just like that, you get to skip out on the whole morning sickness, weight gain, and pushing them out of your vagina part. Lucky for them, I am not in the market for a kid. Not today. Not ever.

Just the thought sobers me up. The phone rings. It’s Tom again. “You’ll never believe —”

“I’ve called six times.” I hear neatly concealed rage on the other end of the line.

“I found a kid.”

“What?”

“A kid. In the street. I found him.”

“I told you not to go outside.”

“He was out there alone.”

“Where is he now?”

“I took him home.”

“Good, listen…I’m almost done here.” I hear him moving about. The speaker rustles. “Are you packed?”

“Have been for hours.”

There’s more rustling. “Perfect. Eat something. I’ll be home shortly.”

“Don’t we have a plane to catch?”

I listen as he clears his throat. He hates it when I fish for information he doesn’t want to give. “Not right away.”

We hang up. I decide to make Tom dinner. I want to clear the air between us. I want to make amends. I want to show him what he’s done to me. I want to know if there’s a future between us. I want to know if he could ever love me the way he loved her. I want to burn this house to the ground. We could start over.

I begin by opening one of the bottles of wine we received after we married. Cooking is hard work, it turns out. One glass turns into two, and two turns into three, until before I know it, I’m watching the wedding video again, and I have to open a new bottle just so he won’t know I’ve finished off the first.

When dinner is ready, which happens to be Tom’s favorite, lasagna, and the only thing I really know how to make, I finish off another glass of red. Then I put on a nice dress, and heels. I want to show Tom I can be like his old wife. But better. I straighten up, the way he likes it. I don’t stop there. For good measure, I don’t just hide the bottle like I usually would. I go around back so I can bury the wine bottle deep in the trash. The hard stuff, I put in the neighbors. I’ve heaved the lid halfway up when I feel something hard shoved in my back. I stumble forward. The wind is knocked out of me. “You really shouldn’t be out here.”

What I’m thinking is…this isn’t going to end well. At least not for me. How I’m feeling is, not ready to die. What I know is, everybody’s somebody’s fool. And, whoever said small things don’t matter, never lit a wildfire with a single match.

I finish the recording. But I’m not holding out false hope. No one is coming to save me. I’m naked in a trunk. How much worse can it get? It’s like Mark Twain said, it’s no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.

Even if the recording uploads, they’ll say I’m a liar. It’s been this way my whole life. I tried to tell my sister not to make that leap. No one believed me. I tried to tell my parents about my first boyfriend, the only one they ever actually liked, and the wicked games he liked to play. I tried to save the animals. I couldn’t even save my sister.

They didn’t believe me about him either. He comes from a great family, they said. They were almost right about that. Except that great family meant he had so much money that to entertain himself he told me he had to go deeper and deeper. For a while he was into dog fighting. He said it beat hookers and blow. Anyway, he took me once. To a fight. There were a lot of people there. Big money maker, he said. Two dogs went into the pen. I watched intently. How much money, I asked. He told me to watch. It was not a time for talking, he said. One must respect the fight. It wasn’t much of a fight, I said. One dog was reluctant. He’s just standing there, I said. He should be doing something, I said.

Sometimes they don’t, my boyfriend said.

So, yeah, if you’re watching this, I understand what you’re going through. I know you’ll probably think it wasn’t a match. I thought that, too.

My girlfriend expected a fight, he told the guy heading it up after the reluctant dog bled out onto the pavement. His blood was practically black, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. My boyfriend punched him in the face. The guy, not the dog. Blood squirted from his nose like how those firemen go around letting the water out of hydrants. That’s how it looked. Like a waterfall you couldn’t stop because it was too fast. And it kept coming. I thought he might bleed out right there. Like the dog, only his blood was bright red. His nose hung all funny too. It was like his bones had just collapsed into his face. This, he said to the gusher, with a nod, was not a fight. This was a suicide mission.

He nearly beat the guy to death. All I could do was watch. I will say he was good in bed, that one. Always up for something new. Always one to keep you on your toes. One never knew quite what to expect. Let me tell you. But they say exes are that way for a reason and you don't want to know what he does for fun these days. Trust me.

I hit the front of the trunk with a thud as the car comes to an abrupt stop. My grip on the phone slips and it goes flying. I fish around desperately in the dark. The driver kills the engine. Finally, my fingers land on it. The screen lights up. I have bars. I press upload on the video and hope it works. I start to dial 9-1-1. The trunk is popped. There isn’t time. I stuff the phone under the carpeting. For this, I need to be hands-free. I shouldn’t have stripped out of my clothes, I realize now. Not only were they designer, I’ve practically offered up an invitation for what’s to come. My future is bleak. My final moments on this earth will not be pleasant. The trunk lifts. It’s show time.