Mia’s face gathers into a storm, blue eyes narrowed, chin pointed at me in anger. “Yes, Paul, that is what I said. I am starting my job Monday. I’m a virtual employee, and I am excited about this new opportunity. You should say congratulations.”
Lacking any other idea, I shove the remainder of the slice of pizza into my mouth, cheese strings cling to my chin before I wipe them away. I chew slowly. My wife does not work. That is not our situation. No matter what. She stays at home and cares for the house and for the children. Optimally, she learns to cook, but at the very least, she sets a nice table. This is what we talked about, what we agreed to, even on our very first date.
How different is the face looking at me across the table from that night with the crème brûlée more than a decade ago. That magical evening, we’d arrived at Diamond’s restaurant at almost the same time, and as I held the door open for Mia, I fought the urge to lean forward and kiss her. I smelled the fresh floral scent of her hair, I noted the way her black dress hugged her body, and I saw her blue eyes sparkle in the dim restaurant light as she looked over her shoulder, tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled back at me.
We’d spent almost three hours at dinner, talking and laughing, getting to know each other. Her expressions were loving and warm, never challenging. She shared her dreams and I followed suit. So of course she discovered we both wanted kids, and how we both longed for the traditional American family. She didn’t exactly articulate the whole working dad, stay-at-home mom part of the dream. But that was fine, it would take time and gentle persuasion. I knew I’d fallen for a working woman, but she didn’t really need the job, not with me providing for her. Not with the trust fund she came with. It was so endearing, though. Many of the wealthy are lazy; they don’t even attempt to prove their worth. Not Mia. She was a hard worker, a skilled copywriter. She was. The job was valuable to her, for her, for that moment in time. It brought us together, because otherwise, our two worlds never would have collided.
“So, your goal is children and a white picket fence?” I asked over the flickering candlelight. My heart was beating with excitement. She was my perfect woman.
“Yes, of course. The whole suburban dream.” She smiled. “I mean, after I work for a while. I love my job. I’m not in a hurry. And fortunately I’m young.”
Yes, she was, but I was smart. Work was only fun if you were assigned good projects, if you were praised, learning. I could stop all her momentum at Thompson Payne with a few well-placed words to the partners. And once she was pregnant, she wouldn’t need an office to make her feel important. She’d have me. And a baby.
“There’s no more important job than being a mom,” I said, leaning forward and fighting the urge to reach for her hand. It was too soon. There were certain steps one must take when reeling in the object of one’s desire. It was time to listen, to continue to research her family, her past. But I did have a few more discoveries, like what she wrote in her high school yearbook as her “biggest wish.”
“There’s another dream, too, right? There must be a bestselling novel floating around in that pretty little head. You can write during naptime.”
Her eyes twinkled in the candlelight. “You’ve thought of everything. How did you know I want to write a novel?”
How indeed. “Most copywriters are frustrated novelists, I’ve found.”
We agreed, it seemed, on everything. I am not revising history. I’m not. She dreamed of a husband. Check. Traveling the world. (I told her we would, but we wouldn’t.) She dreamed of a home in the suburbs and children. Check. She dreamed of being a working mom. (No way.) She dreamed of finding an older, more sophisticated man who could provide for her and teach her the meaning of love. Check.
It was all pretty easy, really. I didn’t even have to charm her that much. And when I walked her to the valet line outside Diamond’s that night, I’d slipped my hand around her waist, sending a bolt of electricity straight through me. She leaned against me slightly as we waited for her car.
“See you tomorrow. Thank you for a wonderful night,” Mia said as she slid behind the wheel of her car, a VW Rabbit of all things, while I tipped the valet. I held the top of her car door and leaned forward, hoping for a kiss, my head literally dizzy with desire and the bottle of wine we had shared.
“I had the best time, thank you for coming,” I said. Mia tilted her head and then lifted her face toward me as I leaned in and gently brushed my lips against hers. After a moment, I pulled away. I had confirmed we both wanted more, needed more.
“See you tomorrow, beautiful.” I closed the door and waved as she pulled away, wheels bumping along the brick streets of this historical part of town. I didn’t really need to sabotage her career at the agency. As soon as she found out she was pregnant just a few weeks after our honeymoon, she had one foot out the door. I mean, she had been complaining for months. Soon after our first date, she’d been assigned to the boring electronics account and as everyone knows, technical copywriting is the worst. She hated that account. I have no idea why she was assigned to it. Well, maybe I suggested it. But still, it helped her see where she belonged: at home. It all worked out, she agreed.
But now, right now, we aren’t seeing eye to eye on anything. Not food, not the kids, not about her working outside the home. I know, you’re thinking, given most couple’s circumstances in general, and mine in particular—and you don’t even know the whole story—I should be grateful she wants to bring in some extra money to the household. Perhaps I’ll consider it. But not if it means she’ll be working with John. No way. Together, they each know too many pieces of me.
“I can’t congratulate you, Mia, because I forbid it,” I tell her now. In my lap, my hands are clenched into fists. I’m furious. I know what happens at workplaces. I’ve shredded my napkin and white bits sprinkle the ground around my feet like snowflakes.
Mia’s face cracks into a smile and then she begins to laugh. It is not a happy laugh. Our pink-striped waitress appears and refills our iced tea with a quick, sloppy pour from a plastic pitcher.
“Glad to see somebody is having a good time. What’s so funny?” the girl asks. She’s quite sure of herself. Millennials have no respect for private conversations. I’m about to swat away Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle when Mia says, “Him.”
Mia points her index finger at me. “My husband doesn’t want me to go back to work. I’m trying to convince him I’m bored all day, with our boys in school. But he doesn’t think women should work outside the home once they marry. He’s so old-fashioned that way. It’s charming, I suppose. I guess he wants me all to himself.” Mia winks at me, smiling. I don’t believe the smile is sincere, however.
Ghost of Teenage Future says, “That’s sort of awesome. I mean, I guess if you want to work he should let you. Everybody should be able to do what they want but it sounds like you have a pretty sweet deal. Me, personally, I’m marrying a rich guy, staying home and having babies.”
I’ve found an unlikely ally, one with a ring through her nose and black eyeliner soaring like bats from either eye. I guess you could say she has her own style. “Yes, my wife is living the dream, the perfect scenario, just like you will one day.” I nod at Mia, who is staring at me and shaking her head back and forth in a slow, measured no. “Can we have the check, please? And a to-go box for my last slice.”
“Sure,” says the waitress, hurrying away. I wonder if we now scare her more than she scared me.
“You’re one of a kind, Paul,” Mia says. She slides out of our booth with ease. I feel as if she is running away from me but that’s ridiculous. We arrived here together. She has nowhere to go. “I’ll meet you at the car. I need to make a call. To Claudia.”
“Tell her the money will be in the account in half an hour,” I say. Mia turns and walks to the exit, pushes with both hands and bangs her way out through the screen door. I watch her walk down the sidewalk until she disappears. I need to fix this tension, calm her down. My wife shouldn’t be running away from me, she should be standing by my side.I’m good at this, I remind myself. I’m typically calm and in control, hiding the fire deep inside. The past six months have been tough, and I’ve lost a bit of my power around the home—it seems apparent by this display, by the car ride conversation, too, that Mia isn’t pleased with me. But I’m not worried. I know Mia, my empathetic, sweet wife. And of course, I have my plan.
I briefly consider making a call, too. It would be nice to speak with someone kind and loving, someone still enamored with me. But I counsel myself against it.
There will be time later for that.
2:00 p.m.
7
