“You know the rules, Jos—.”

“I know,” I tell him. Let no man or woman come between what God has created. I don’t tell him I accepted those rules when I was young, pliable, and hopelessly in love. What good would it do? I may no longer be the former but I can’t say with absolution that I’m not the latter. “It’s just…well, I feel terrible. I shouldn’t have talked her into it…”

He looks over at me and smiles. It's the reassuring kind, the kind he's best known for these days.

“But it was your job. You couldn’t have known this was going to happen.”

I take a deep breath in, and I hold it. He’s right. I can’t fault him for all of it, even though I desperately want to.

He makes a left turn, hard and fast. I slide across the leather seat, shifting more than I mean to. “I think you’re overreacting,” he tells me calmly. “I checked the calendar this morning, in preparation, and you’re on cycle day 22. So—” he says, patting my knee. “A little emotional upheaval is to be expected.”

I clear my throat. Even after all this time, years spent with a person, sharing their bed, sharing a life, sometimes you see a thing coming and sometimes you don’t.

“What’s done is done, Josie. Premenstrual or not, do I really need to remind you of the agreement?”

Never second guess a decision once it’s been made.

“No,” I admit “It’s just nerves, you know. I hate to think there is more we could be doing.”

I watch his jaw tighten, flex, and release. I watch his knuckles go from pink to white as he grips the wheel, and I know that was the wrong thing to say. Lying is a punishable offense under the agreement he’s referring to. So I tiptoe around the truth instead. “I’m sure she’s in good hands.”

“She’ll be fine,” he says. I study his profile. He doesn’t look worried. Maybe I shouldn’t, either. “Anyway, it’s out of our control at this point. All we can do is pray,” he adds, repositioning his hands on the wheel. He stretches his fingers, and then glances toward me. He’s looking to see that I’m on board, and on his face I see it. The calm, in-control mask goes up. “And in any case, she probably won't be there long. Once they treat the infection, she’ll be good as new.”

“I know,” I assure him. I know when to give him what he wants.

He stares straight ahead. “Sometimes these things happen…”

“You're right,” I reply, not because I necessarily believe him but because I know there's nothing more to be said. My husband has that way about him. He’s an expert at letting you know when the conversation is over, without ever having to say so. I don’t tell him how guilty I feel over the whole thing. June was—June is— my friend. I mean, not the real kind. It’s been a long time since I’ve had one of those. She’s my Sister In God, my mentor, both New Hope terms, but still. She didn’t want that surgery. Her husband wanted it. She told me it wouldn’t go well. She knew. But given our friendship, given that she was my mentor, it was my job to talk her into doing what her husband said. Checks and balances.

“I’m going to drop you off,” Grant informs me, interrupting my thoughts. He says it so casual and cool. Always so cool. “I have to head to the office.”

“The office?” I say as though it’s some crazy, far-fetched idea.

“Should I pick up dinner on my way home?” he asks, and this is his way of not answering my question directly. He’s very skilled at a lot of things, evasion being high on the list.

I shift in my seat. “You're going into work today?” It's a stupid question, one that he’s already answered, in typical fashion, by presenting another question. So, I don't know why I asked, or why my voice raises, turns high-pitched and needy, which is exactly why he gives me the side-eye. I take it for what it is, a warning.

I swallow hard. Suddenly, I wish I hadn’t opened my mouth. I should have known better. On all fronts. Grant is married to his work, so why I thought he’d take the entire day off is beyond me— I should've assumed. I guess every once in a while it's nice to be surprised.

“Josie—please.” He places his hand over mine. “We’ve had a good morning.”

If you consider visiting a friend who might be dying— all the while knowing it might very well be your fault— a good morning, then yes, I guess you’re right. I almost say this to him. I feel like the words could glide out into open air, into the space between us, so easily. But I bite them back. I know where that kind of mistake leads, and it’s nowhere good. Plus, it won’t help anyway. I know he has a full schedule. I know his patients are demanding. “I’m sorry,” I say, because I know how much he hates it when I raise my voice. Also, I wouldn’t understand what it’s like having work that you love. This is what he’s thinking. He hasn’t said it yet. Sometimes I like to beat him to the punch.

“Dinner?” he reminds me. “Do I need to get dinner?”

“No.” I scroll through my phone. Snap a photo of my shoes next to the Porsche logo on the floor mat and post it to Instalook. Caption it with: Love mornings with my man.

Scrolling through my feed, I glance up. He likes it when I post on Instalook. Superficiality is his specialty. “I have to pick up Avery from dance at four. Then I plan to head back up to see June. I'll fix something and leave it in the fridge between now and then…”

He frowns. “You won’t be home when I arrive?”

I like eighteen photos. Not so different from my own. Fifteen of them are members of the church, the other three, we’re trying to recruit.

“Josie.”

“Sorry,” I say. “The Chick Tribe has had a busy morning…” That’s what we call ourselves. It was a joke at first, or at least I think, but somehow it stuck. Anyway, it’s good for business, nonetheless. “What did you ask?”

Ordinarily, he’d be annoyed I wasn’t listening. But those two words have power. The kind only money and influence bring.

“Will you be home when I get home?”

“I don’t know. Depends on how long things take at the hospital…”

He shakes his head. “There’s nothing you can do for June, love. It’s important you let her rest.” He sighs. “And, she needs to not rely so much on you. We need you at home, Jos .”

“I know,” I agree. I check the number of likes I received. Shit. I forgot to tag the shoes. Everyone wants to know where they came from. I glance at the bottom of my heel. I can’t remember now and then I look over at my husband. “But the kids are getting older, and you’ll be working late… so I just figured—”

He holds his hand up to cut me off. “Is it really so much to ask that the first thing I see when I walk through the door is my wife’s beautiful face?”

I swallow hard. “No,” I say, and suddenly it clicks. The shoes came from Nordstrom’s. Last season. I should have thought of that. I can’t very well say this. It’ll be disappointing to the tribe. “What time should I have dinner ready?”

He nods and gives another of his reassuring smiles. “That sounds perfect,” he says which doesn’t answer the question at all. He stops at a red light and just when I think he isn’t going to say anything further, he does. “I really couldn’t live without you, Josie. I know this isn’t easy for you…with everything going on right now…but most things in life that are meaningful aren’t easy.”

I frown. It sounds like he just pulled a random quote out of thin air and inserted it into our conversation. Also, I feel one of his pep talks coming, and I’m not in the mood. Speaking of easy, I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. I don’t want to hear it, so I throw him a curveball. “Do you think you can pick up James from soccer?”

“What time?” he asks, furrowing his brow. I don’t know why he’s confused. It’s farcical. For the past seven months, our son’s practice has ended at the same time everyday.

“5 o'clock,” I answer, careful to keep my tone steady. Neutral. Tone is important to my husband. It’s written into the manual.

“Sorry. I can’t.” He shakes his head. “I have a patient at 4:30.”

Of course you do, I almost say. I stare out the passenger window and bite my tongue instead.

“How about stopping off for coffee?”

I look over at him. My husband doesn’t drink coffee. Which means I usually don’t either. But I see it for what it is—a peace offering.

I look over and nod. “That sounds great.”

He winks at me, an unspoken gesture that says so much. He looks so boyish behind the wheel, relaxed, the sunlight glinting off his skin. I see the love written in his expression, and it’s hard to be angry about the rest of it. It’s familiar, this look, a reminder of what was, what has always been. I remember he winked like that on our wedding day, standing at the altar, as though the two of us were in on some sort of secret the rest of the world didn’t get.

“It's a good thing he'll be driving in a few weeks…”

“Huh?” Then I get it. He’s not thinking about our wedding day. He’s thinking about our son.

“James.”

“Yes,” I agree, although I'm not so sure. I’m not ready to have another thing to worry about.

I see his eyes glance at the clock on the dash. “They grow up so fast, don't they?”

“They do,” I reply, and at least that much is true.

We stop for coffee at a new place, or at least I think it’s new. Maybe I just never noticed it before. I don’t drink coffee anymore, so it’s hard to say. In any case, we don’t speak much after that. Grant says silence is golden.

At home, he drops me at the door, or rather in the drive. He has to run. I feel that familiar pang, loneliness, or longing, who’s to say? It only lasts for a second, because when I walk in the front door there are a dozen long-stemmed pink roses sitting in the foyer. I lean in and inhale the familiar scent, and then I pluck the card, sliding it between my fingers, feeling the weight of the paper. I open it, even though I’m pretty sure I know what it will say. There are only a few variations. I love you. Always have. Always will. Love, Grant.

I lean back and snap the photo with my phone. I post it to Instalook with the hashtag #luckiestwifeever .

And I am the luckiest wife ever. If one is to overlook the fact that my husband had his assistant order these, and someone else deliver them, and the fact that he can’t be here for me when I really need him. If you forget to consider those things, then yes, it’s all true. I roll my shoulders and try to release the weight of this morning. This isn’t his fault, the situation with June. Well, not entirely. I shouldn’t be so annoyed with him. He is trying. Clearly, he’s trying.

I set my phone down and sit on the plush bench in the foyer. It’s well-cushioned and pale green. Grant’s choice. I know he won’t like me sitting on it, having just been at the hospital. He despises germs, which is why I had to practically beg him to let me see June, given the infection. I half-expected he’d say I shouldn’t go back up this afternoon. But he didn’t.

I crack my neck and open my phone. I check Instalook to see how many “likes” I’ve gotten. Forty-five in nineteen seconds. Not bad. Still, I sigh. I reply to the comments about the shoes. Grant brought them back for me from a trip, I lie.

I cross and uncross my legs. Smooth my dress. If I lean forward just enough I can see her house. I don’t want to, but sometimes it’s an itch I have to scratch. I scratch hard this time, allowing myself a good, hard look. It’s so different now, so empty without her, even though it isn’t empty at all. So much has changed, and yet nothing has. Kate was my best friend. I make myself look away. I thumb through Instalook, see what the Chick Tribe is up to. This helps.

I don’t like to think about how good it used to be. That’s why I don’t look often, not anymore. It hurts too much, even after all this time. But sometimes on occasion, if I’m antsy, the way I am now, I allow myself just a peek, a tiny glimpse into the past. I’m careful though. I don’t venture too far down that path or there are consequences. Friends like Kate don’t come around often, and in fact, and I know it sounds cliché, but I’ve never met anyone like her since. I don’t think I ever will. The closest I’ve come is June, and our friendship is based solely on our positions within the church, so that isn’t saying much. Still, I like June. Which is more than I can say for the rest of them.

I pick up my phone again. Not today, I tell myself. I won’t go there today. I feel antsy, so I open Instalook again. I close it quickly; I have things to do. But not before checking the number of likes I’ve received on my roses. Ninety-seven so far. In thirty-eight seconds. I know it shouldn't matter— but those likes make me feel good.

I shoot a text to Grant, thanking him for the flowers. They're beautiful, I write. I mean it, but also, I know how much my husband appreciates reciprocation. While I wait for him to text back, my phone rings. It's June. I already know why she’s calling. She’s scared. I saw it this morning. She told me as much, when Grant stepped out to take a call. She thinks someone is out to get her. Grant assures me this can happen when the body is fighting an infection, when a person is really sick. But he’s wrong about part of it. June was like this before he performed the breast enhancement on her. She was paranoid before the infection. He didn’t say anything when I mentioned that. He doesn’t like it when I worry.

“I have to pick up Avery first,” I tell her.

“Can’t she ride the bus?” She scoffs. “My kids always rode the bus…”

“She hates the bus, June.” I don’t mean to sound annoyed but maybe Grant is right. Maybe I shouldn’t let her depend on me so much. It’s just that she reminds me a little of Kate and Kate depended on me a lot. I guess it’s good to feel needed. “No one rides the bus these days.”

“Sure they do,” she says. “Why else would they have them?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut.

“And, you know, it might make her appreciate you a little more if she had to face a little bit of hardship. Speaking of hardship,” she says lowering her voice. “I have to tell you, I think it’s going to happen today. I don’t care what it takes Josie—you have to do something. You have to get me out of here.”

“June, please.”

“Please, what?”

“We’ve discussed this.”

She starts in on me again, and I listen for a few moments until my head throbs, and my phone buzzes.

“Avery is beeping in,” I tell her. “I have to go.”

“What? Who?”

“I’ve got to go,” I repeat. “I’ll be there at 5:30,” I promise, and I press the button to switch calls.

“Avery—”

“Mom,” I hear my daughter say on the other end of the line. She’s breathless, but then that’s the norm these days. Everything is urgent and everything is a disaster. This is fourteen. “I need you to pick me up,” she huffs. “ASAP—we have a semester test in biology, and I have a massive headache…I can't possibly take that test today.”

“Avery…”

“What? If I do, I'll seriously flunk out of school!”

“Avery, I can’t pick you up right now,” I sigh. “I have a long list of things to do. Can’t you just stick it out?”

“Mommmmm. NO.” She’s annoyed with me, every bit her father’s daughter. “I can’t just stick it out,” she swears. “Do you even realize what you’re asking me?”

Of course I realize what I’m asking.

“Avery—”

“You know what?” she huffs. “Never mind. I’ll just start walking home.”

“Fine,” I relent. I shake my head at what I’m about to say. “I’ll be there in 20 minutes. Be ready and waiting on the bench.”

She knows I won't let her walk home. It's an empty threat. At this age, she's still all arms and legs, outgoing and headstrong, everything that I wasn’t. She's moody and impossible— all the things no one tells you about when they place that little bundle of joy in your arms.

Avery didn’t speak until she was almost two and a half, and I remember practically willing her to talk. Grant swore up and down that it was that one glass of wine I had before I knew I was pregnant. A woman should be reserved in all things. But we both knew that wasn’t it. He, more so than me, given that he’s an actual doctor. I begged him to let me take her to a speech therapist, but he refused. Until one day I took her anyway. I’ll never forget how I paid for that. Interestingly enough, it was a few short days after that Avery graced us with her first word. It wasn’t Mama and it wasn’t Dada. It was no.

Of course, these days things are a little different. She never shuts up, and most of the time, I remember to be thankful for that. That’s not to say that I don’t brace myself whenever my phone rings. I know who’s calling. The church, Grant, but usually it’s the kids. This is the stage of parenting where you never quite know what the call will bring. Sometimes it's a forgotten lunch, sometimes it's a needed ride, usually it’s ‟I need money,” ‟Can you put money in my account?” or ‟Can I go home with so and so after school?”

The answer is almost always yes, and I’m sure that’s the problem. I once complained to Grant about it. He simply sighed, and shook his head like I was the most daft person on the planet. Afterward, he’d reminded me, this is my job, and if I only stopped to consider the stuff he has to deal with on a day-to-day basis, then maybe I wouldn't complain so much.

But he’s wrong about that.

I do think about the kinds of things he has to deal with. I think about those women, how he sculpts perfect breasts. I think about their perfect bodies, the kind of precision it takes to mold the perfect face, and I can’t help but wonder if he isn’t right.