June, this year
“Morning, honey.”
Stephen is in bed beside me, in our little apartment in Aurora.
Not a dream, then. I really made it to this life, with Stephen. The life I’ve been looking for.
He grins at me. “Sleep well? I made some coffee — I’ll get you some.”
I smile back at him, sleepily, pushing my hair out of my eyes. “Thanks.”
He bounds out of bed with enthusiasm, his bare butt pale and skinny and cute, and pulls on a pair of boxer briefs.
Oh God. Is he a morning person?
This could be a problem. But, I mean, not an insurmountable one.
I sit up in bed, propping myself up with pillows, and check the phone on the nightstand beside me. Not yet a quarter after seven on a Saturday morning. I’m usually asleep until around ten, having been out late with Bonnie, and sometimes Ben, on a Friday night.
I guess I live a more wholesome life with Stephen. He’s a clean-living Catholic guy, after all.
The coffee had better be good, otherwise I’m gonna have to make some changes around here.
Stephen returns with a disappointingly small mug, which he hands to me proudly, and then reaches into the closet for some clothes.
“I’m heading out for a run along the river — my usual route.” He pulls on track pants and a T-shirt. “You have your lazy Saturday snooze, and I’ll see you for breakfast. I’ll grab some of those muffins on the way back.” He kisses me on the forehead.
“Thanks. I feel like a bagel, though — could you pick up a couple of sesame ones, please?” I take a sip of coffee. “Have a nice run.”
Ugh, no, the coffee is definitely sub-par. I’ll have to do something about that. And since when did I stop taking sugar?
Stephen pauses by the bedroom door, pushing his heels into a pair of sneakers. “Bagels? You know I can’t eat those. I don’t even want gluten crumbs in our toaster, honey. I thought we agreed, no gluten in the house at all?”
Shit, that’s right — Stephen is strictly gluten-free. I’ve noticed this at work and when we’re out for client dinners, but it’s never affected me before, of course. Now I’ll have to be more careful, since I’m living with the guy.
I shake my head. “Sorry, wasn’t thinking. Gluten-free muffins are fine.”
He gives me a quizzical look, one eyebrow raised. “You okay? You haven’t seemed like yourself ever since you got back from the meeting with the Gellermans. I’ll have to catch up with you about that.”
“Sure. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. You go enjoy your run.”
Crap. Not only has he noticed I’m “not myself” — although, like Chris in a former life, he has no idea how literally that is true — but he also wants me to get him up to speed on some client meeting. One that I have absolutely no idea about.
I’m also still hazy on how it works when I’m entering a new universe — how the new world’s version of me somehow knows I’m coming, so their body is ready for me to somehow jump into. I’m not even sure that Stephen’s real Millie would have been at that client meeting yesterday. After all, her car was there for me at the Lake Bluff house. Her body, with its cardigan and shorts outfit, was there for me to quantum-leap into.
In my weird, futuristic San Francisco life, Evan had told me that I — or his Millie, anyways — had left in some kind of trance-like state, as if compelled to go. The women at the housing shelter had said something similar, too. I have to assume that’s what happens each time I switch universes. That the Millie in that world always manages to get to Lake Bluff that Friday evening, no matter where she was previously, so that I’m able to try on her life for a while.
Or, in this case, in my new reality with Stephen, to live this new life on a permanent basis.
Well, if I’m here indefinitely, I’d better figure out how to be Stephen’s wife and what I’m supposed to know. With Stephen now out of the house, it’s a good time to poke around and see what I can learn.
I abandon the mug of bitter coffee, pull on a robe from the closet, and examine the other clothes. Nice enough... definitely a little more conservative and cutesy than my usual wardrobe. Lots of cotton tops with floral prints, several cardigans and cute little sweaters, some capri pants and cotton shorts. A distinct lack of the faded jeans and well-worn graphic T-shirts that I usually favor.
I step into the little foyer and through the door behind the kitchen wall, which last night I discovered led to a small interior bathroom. There’s a light above a mirrored cabinet, which contains many mysterious prescription pill bottles with “STEPHEN POWELL — TWO PER DAY” printed on them. Probably more digestive health stuff. Various, but limited, cosmetics for me, and other standard fare of toothpaste and dental floss.
Below the sink is a larger cabinet full of rolled-up, clean bath towels — a stack of yellow on the left, blue on the right — and spare toilet paper. I pull a thick yellow towel out to use for my shower, since I have no idea which of the two currently hanging towels belongs to me. As I pull it out, a large, floral make-up bag falls forward — it must’ve been tucked down behind the towels. I unzip the bag, then realize why it might’ve been there — it’s full of sanitary pads and tampons. Maybe there isn’t room for all those in the tiny cabinet above the sink. Or maybe the Millie in this life doesn’t want Stephen looking at tampons every time he takes his morning prescription.
A bit prim, but whatever.
I dig through the make-up bag, and my fingertip catches on the edge of a blister packet of pills.
Contraceptive pills, with the blisters marked for the day of the week.
The next one to be taken is marked as a Saturday — today. That makes sense. Okay, so this Millie is on the pill. That’s fine — I’ve been on the pill myself, in the past, although I gave up a couple years ago as it was giving me breakouts and I wasn’t sleeping with anyone anyways.
I open the Saturday blister, swallow the pill down with a splash of water, then examine my face in the mirror. My dark hair is much the same as it usually is, a just-below-chin-length bob, cut maybe a little squarer at the back. My weight is about the same as in my regular life, my skin clear and blemish-free.
Hold up.
Last night after sex, Stephen had said, “Maybe it’ll work this time. Lift your legs up. Keep it in.”
We’re trying for a baby.
So why is this Millie on the pill?
Plus, Stephen is a devout Catholic. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t believe in using contraception.
Is that why the bag is tucked down the back of the cabinet, behind the yellow towels? Is Millie hiding her contraception from Stephen?
Is she lying to him about wanting a child? Letting him believe they’re trying, while secretly taking the pill to prevent it?
I tuck the pills back into the bottom of the make-up bag, and hide the bag back behind the towels. I turn on the shower, hang the robe up on a hook, and step under the hot water, my mind racing.
Crap. This isn’t good. There are potentially some serious cracks in this marriage, and I’ve only been here twelve hours. Who knows what else I’ll find? There may be a host of other secrets I don’t know about, and may not find any physical evidence of, so I’ll never be any the wiser.
Although, maybe that’s a good thing? Maybe it’s a fresh start for them, with me being innocent of any and all of this Millie’s secrets. Maybe I can be an honest, true wife to him going forward.
But then, that would surely involve throwing away that pill packet, and genuinely trying for a baby.
I shudder slightly, despite the warmth of the water running over my body. Absolutely no way. I’m not ready for a child. I may be thirty, but I’m just not there yet. It’s not that I’d never want children, it’s just that I haven’t really had any long-term relationships, and it’s so hard to imagine raising a child with someone, when I don’t even know how to live with a partner yet.
And, now that I’m here and really thinking about it, it’s kinda tough to imagine co-parenting with Stephen. He’s a wonderful guy — warm, and kind, and thoughtful, and incredibly smart. But he’s also a lot more traditional than I am. I’ve noticed in my regular life, with Stephen as a colleague, that he’s very much the breadwinner while his wife Eve stays home with the kids. That’s not what I’d want. I have a career that’s important to me, and I don’t subscribe to such traditional gender roles.
Maybe I can talk to Stephen about not wanting a child yet. Needing to spend more time being married, just us, before we go down that road. But then again, that would mean me taking contraception, which I’m almost certain he would not be on board with.
How did Stephen and I find our way to marriage, with such different viewpoints? It’s a wonder we worked out at all.
I rinse off, step out of the shower, and head into the bedroom to get dressed. I pick out a sleeveless button-down with a yellow stripe, and put on the same white cotton shorts as yesterday. I haven’t looked out of the window yet, but I already know this Saturday is a hot day. I’ve lived it several times at this point.
Although, not that many. It’s a bit strange how relatively few lives I had to live, to find the one I was looking for with Stephen. Given that there are infinite possibilities. Infinite chances.
It’s almost too easy.
After dressing, and throwing yesterday’s clothes into a laundry bin inside the closet — no sign of a washing machine anywhere, though, and please don’t tell me it’s a shared laundry room — I poke around some more. The nightstand drawers yield no further secrets — no sex toys or lube, no well-thumbed erotic fiction — and the kitchen cabinets are equally anti-climactic. Very few spices or seasonings — I remember now that Stephen doesn’t like spicy foods — and a fairly dull selection of canned soups, tuna, chickpeas, and lentils. The fridge bears the rest of last night’s dinner in its oven dish, a lot of salad ingredients, a carton of eggs, margarine, several cans of seltzer, a block of mild cheddar, and a large carton of lactose-free milk.
Pretty pedestrian ingredients, compared with my usual love of spicy and interesting cuisine — instilled in me through the years by both Bonnie and Ben. I recall one Friday evening, maybe six months after graduation, at the Lake Bluff house when Bonnie was on her way back from her course in the city, the Masons still alive then but away for the weekend, Amber busy doing something else, and Ben and I were cooking dinner for the three of us. He had taught me that night to be adventurous with the chicken stir-fry we were making, liberally adding chili flakes and cumin without measurement, tasting along the way, him feeding huge spoonfuls of it into my mouth, me laughing through giant, hot mouthfuls.
A pang of nostalgia ripples through me, making my shoulders heave. I miss those nights. The ones with just me, Ben, and Bonnie. My favorite people.
I haven’t Googled them yet in this world. I need to figure out what they’re doing, who they’re with, if we’re still close. I won’t like this Stephen reality as much if I’m not spending quality time with my people.
I make a green tea in the kitchen, given the poor coffee situation, and take my phone over to the couch. Out of the window, the sun is glittering on the river, twelve stories below me. Aurora is spread far and wide — a low-rise, low-density city with some greenery punctuating the buildings.
I turn to LinkedIn on the cellphone, and type in “Bonnie Mason.” Okay, so she has her design store and consultancy in this life — that’s great news. That should mean that we’re still good friends, given that my encouragement seems to have been a significant factor in her opening the business. I check Instagram, and her page looks much as it does in my life, including some very similar posts to the ones I have recently helped her with. Despite the relative shortage of photos of us together, it looks like we’re still friends, at least, and I’m still helping with marketing her business.
I blow out a breath of relief that I hadn’t realized I was holding in.
Now, Ben.
Like Bonnie, Ben’s online presence is largely as I remember. Playwright-director, living in downtown Chicago. Successful, celebrated. Seems to be single, although he doesn’t have much of a personal social media presence, so it’s hard to tell. There’s the same article on him in a local arts magazine that he had in my original life, with the same beautiful black-and-white side-profile shot of his face filling the entire first page of the digital edition. His blond beard is a little longer than usual in that photo, and he’s wearing a black turtleneck — every inch the hot young theater director.
I’d teased him about it at the time. “You’ll be in one of those Chicago’s Sexiest Bachelors lists next,” I’d said, giving him back the thick print edition they’d sent him. He had raised an eyebrow at me, saying nothing. Just looking at me. I had wondered, in that moment, what he was thinking — before Bonnie burst in and started exclaiming about the article.
So, Bonnie and Ben both seem normal in this life, and I’m still hanging out with Bonnie, at least sometimes. That’s good, right?
Why, then, do I feel weirdly disappointed?
Had I been looking for a reason for something to be badly wrong in this world? Am I subconsciously looking for an out?
There’s no doubt I’m rattled over the whole trying-for-a-baby-but-taking-the-pill thing.
And, yes, by the encroaching suspicion that the fantasy of being Stephen’s wife may be more romantic than the reality of being married to a conservative, religious man with digestive problems.
No time to dwell on that right now. He’ll be back in fifteen, and I still haven’t figured out any of the work stuff that I know he wants to catch up on over breakfast. I guess we’re still colleagues at Magnolia? Maybe we work from home some days, given that the commute would be kinda long each day. In my reality, Magnolia has been giving us the option of hybrid work since the pandemic, so that’s probably true here, too.
I check my own LinkedIn career profile... and the difference is shocking. No work at Magnolia, at all. After graduation from Northwestern, there’s a couple of two-year stints at advertising agencies I recognize the names of. But, for the past four years, my profile reads, “Co-founder and COO, Powell MacKenzie LLC — a digital marketing agency.”
My own agency, with Stephen. We have our own marketing business together.
I click through to the company’s website, which has a slick, professional home page with an interactive grid of images and client logos. Mostly company names I don’t recognize, lots that look like Aurora-based restaurants or local sports clubs. A couple of business names that ring a faint bell, like Gellerman’s, a family-run construction company outside Chicago that I’ve seen on housing development signs. A solid portfolio — definitely enough for a small, successful marketing agency.
I click through to “Our Team” where the page has a grid of four headshots — Stephen’s first, as CEO, then mine, as the slightly inferior COO, which rankles slightly. Below us are two faces I don’t recognize. Someone called Emma Robson, digital marketing specialist, and an older guy called Randy Jones, CFO and office manager. Looks like we’re a small and scrappy team. The company’s address is listed as in Aurora, although not this home address, so I look it up in Google maps. It’s in a low-rise business park about three miles away — presumably we rent a workspace there. Kind of dull looking, but practical, and probably affordable for such a small business.
Okay, then. This is my life. Living here and working with Stephen — probably a lot of driving around to visit with locally based clients, with the Aurora office as a practical base. Occasional visits and girls’ nights with Bonnie; holidays with Stephen’s family.
A solid, well-defined, stable life.
Maybe a little dull?
Aside from the secret contraception, of course. That adds a frisson of excitement. It could be that Stephen’s Millie is feeling a little bored, or trapped, or something, and needs to keep hold of some semblance of freedom in the only way she knows how.
But, let’s not forget, this is the life I was looking for. Right? The one I was dreaming of, where Stephen and I are together, unencumbered? No life could ever be perfect, and this is the life I said I wanted.
All I have to do is... live it.
* * *
A week gone.
A week as Stephen’s wife. Living with him in our little apartment. Going to work with him in our little agency in a mediocre business-park office. Having to figure out, without being able to ask any questions, what’s going on with our client accounts and marketing campaigns. Fortunately, I already know very well how Stephen works, and both he and I are meticulous in record keeping and calendar planning, so that adjustment has been easier than expected.
Much less easy, in terms of adjustment, has been living such a quiet life, with pretty much only Stephen for company, in this small city. Eating simple meals together at the dining table. No alcohol on weeknights — a rule I unwittingly broke when I poured us both wine on Monday evening after we’d spent the Juneteenth day off with his sister and her family. Nice, wholesome people. Very religious.
And a week — well, three instances — of okay, but kinda disappointing sex.
It’s only been seven days in this life and already, if I’m really honest with myself, I’m kind of bored.
Maybe I can text Bonnie and see if she is free to hang out tonight. Maybe even Ben, too.
Would that be weird?
The click of the front door opening, and Stephen’s light footsteps in the foyer after his Saturday morning run. Like clockwork, every day without fail — leaving at seven fifteen sharp, back on the dot of eight am.
I smile at him from my seat on the small living room loveseat, where I’ve been scrolling through Instagram. “Good run?”
“Great,” he replies, kicking off his shoes. “It’s getting hotter out there. You eaten breakfast yet?”
It’s just turned eight a.m. on a Saturday morning — I’m barely awake, and it’s a miracle that I’m dressed.
“Not yet,” I reply. “I was waiting for you. You want me to scramble some eggs?”
“That’d be great — I’m starving. I’m really sweaty, but do you mind if I don’t shower until after breakfast? I’ll make us some coffee.”
I wince at the thought of Stephen’s terrible coffee. “You go ahead and make some for you. I’m fine. I’ll do the eggs.”
I make us both scrambled eggs and toast some sorry-looking breakfast muffins, thankful there is at least cheese to grate over the top. Stephen, who is lactose-intolerant, doesn’t take any cheese, and eyes my generous grating with an eyebrow-raise that looks like judgment. We sit down at the table and I dig in as Stephen clears this throat, somewhat performatively.
“Millie, I need to talk to you about the meeting with the Gellermans last week,” he says, his tone surprisingly serious.
Oh crap, right. The meeting I was supposed to report back to Stephen about, which took place last Friday, just before I arrived. I’ve been avoiding the topic, as I have no idea what happened at that meeting. Fortunately, I haven’t had to explain until this moment, as we were so busy with other accounts all week. I’d been hoping Stephen would forget to follow up entirely.
“I had a pretty surprising email from Mike Gellerman late yesterday,” Stephen continues. “He asked if you were feeling better this week, and whether we could reschedule. So, while I was out just now, I called him to ask what he was talking about. He said that about ten minutes into last Friday’s meeting, when Bunny was explaining about the new lot parcels, you just got up without a word, walked out of their boardroom, and never came back. Without saying that something had come up, or that you had to leave, or anything. And you didn’t answer when they called your cell.” He shakes his head and picks up his coffee, his eggs getting cold in front of him. “What in the world happened, Mill? And why didn’t you tell me?”
My stomach drops. Yep, that about tracks. This world’s version of me, in a fugue state, compelled to get to Lake Bluff on a Friday afternoon for no apparent reason.
Not exactly something I can explain to Stephen.
“Right, I was going to tell you about that — I totally forgot to mention it,” I lie, flustered. “Uh, yeah, I sat down with them but I was... suddenly feeling really ill. I had to get up real quick and find the bathroom — I couldn’t even talk without risking vomiting across the boardroom table. I was, uh, really sick. Then I was too embarrassed to return, I just got in the car and drove away.” I shake my head, feigning remorse. “I feel awful about it. I should’ve emailed this week to apologize to them, and told you about it, but we were so busy, I totally forgot. But I’ll apologize. I’ll send them some wine, or something.”
Stephen sighs, heavily. “Well, okay. Don’t send wine, though — remember Bunny is a recovering alcoholic?” His expression softens. “I’m sorry you were feeling so bad, though. Were you really sick in their bathroom? I wonder if it was a sketchy sandwich from that new café we tried that day.” He reaches to pick up his fork, but then stops, his hand hovering mid-air. “Wait. Do you think... ?” He looks at me expectantly. “Could you be... pregnant?”
Shit, I didn’t think this lie through.
“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” I reply hurriedly. “I’d know. Probably the sandwich.”
He nods, disappointed, and finally digs into his slightly congealed eggs. “I figured that sandwich shop wasn’t great. I’m sorry.”
God, I can’t stand lying to this man, and now he’s the one apologizing to me. “No, I’m sorry. It was still very unprofessional of me, and I should have told the Gellermans before I left.”
“They’ll be fine — they were just worried about you,” he replies, giving me a forgiving smile, which gradually slips as his brow creases. “But then... how come you were late home that night, if you left the meeting so early? I had assumed they had kept you late.”
Jeez, this guy doesn’t miss a thing.
“Oh, right. Yeah, I, uh, was still feeling ill while driving, so I pulled over and spent a while sitting in a park, until I felt better. It took some time for the nausea to pass. And it was such a warm afternoon, I just chilled there for a while. I’d turned my phone off for the meeting, so I guess I never heard Mike’s calls.”
Ugh. These lies upon lies are making me feel genuinely nauseated. I push my plate away, my breakfast only half eaten.
Stephen nods, sympathetically, and then surprises me by chuckling. “I’m surprised you were so energetic when you got in that evening, after that experience.”
Yeah, my story really isn’t adding up. I’d all but ripped his clothes off when I got to the apartment for the first time.
“Me, too,” I reply, laughing to cover up the moment. “I guess you just do it for me, no matter what. You always did.”
He finishes a mouthful of food with a slight head shake. “Oh, I don’t know about that. You gotta admit it took a while at Northwestern, after you joined the Astrophysics Society, before you liked me in a romantic way. You were too obsessed with that sleazy theater professor for anyone else to get a look in your freshman year.”
I grimace. That sounds about right. And it’s useful information — so, Stephen and I got together in my second year, after an affair with Rufus that sounds like it ended earlier than in my version. And before Stephen would’ve met Eve, his wife in my reality.
I met him first, as I’ve wished so many times that I had. But it’s not feeling like I thought it would.
I tilt my head at him. “Yeah, but I saw sense in the end, didn’t I?”
Stephen gets up to clear our plates. “Thank goodness you did. Okay, I’m taking a shower.”
I clean up the kitchen while Stephen showers, my stomach tumbling with discomfort. And, if I’m honest, disappointment. In this life, and in myself, for lying so much to Stephen, and for not being able to enjoy being with him as much as I should.
The truth is, in the week that’s passed, my attraction to Stephen has taken something of a nosedive. Sure, I’ve had a massive crush on him all the years we’ve been working together in my regular life, at Magnolia — but the truth is, he wasn’t available to me in that life. It’s very easy to romanticize the idea of a relationship you tell yourself you want, but know will never happen. It’s a whole different ballgame to actually live the banal day-to-day of life with that person.
Be careful what you wish for, I guess.
Stephen emerges with a puff of steam from the bathroom behind the wall of kitchen cabinets, where I’m stacking dishes into the dishwasher. He’s dressed in nothing but a blue towel around his waist, his chest pale but flushed red in patches from the hot water, his hair wet. And his face a strange, sickly white.
He holds something up.
“Do you want to tell me what the hell this is?” His voice is dark and low, his normally blue eyes stormy.
In his hand, the packet of contraceptive pills I found last weekend, and have been taking daily ever since.
Shit.
“Stephen,” I reply, my stomach churning. “I wanted to talk to you about this.”
He throws them down onto the counter. “What the fuck, Millie? You’re taking the pill and not telling me? I think we’re trying for a baby, while you’re deliberately perverting the natural course of our bodies, not to mention God’s will, to prevent it from happening? What possible excuse can you have?”
He’s furious. I’ve never seen him like this, nor ever heard him curse before — not even when he lost it once at Magnolia, after a client pulled their account and he had to scrap months of work.
I hold my hands up, then reach for him. “Stephen, I’m sor—”
“No,” he interjects, backing away. His towel is about to drop, and he grabs onto it. “I don’t want to hear some... some bull right now, Millie. I honestly can’t even look at you.” He shakes his head, his brow deeply furrowed. “I need to think for a second, okay?”
“Okay, I totally get it,” I reply hurriedly, holding up my hands in defense once more. “We can talk later. I’ll go out for a walk, give you some space. We’ll talk later, okay?”
He says nothing in reply, just gives me a single nod, and turns to march into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
My pulse racing, I grab my phone from the table and my purse from the foyer, and slip on my sandals. I pick up the keys from the console, and quietly let myself out of the door.
Where to go? I still don’t know Aurora very well. But I had spotted a café a few blocks away, when I was out grocery shopping earlier this week, and it looked okay.
I find the café on my phone’s map, and walk the three blocks to it. Inside, it’s buzzing with friends and couples having Saturday morning brunch, and seems like a fun community space. Probably the nicest place I’ve seen since I arrived in this town. I order a double-shot latte and a blueberry scone, with lots of gluten to spite Stephen, and take it to a small metal table in the sunshine outside.
This is not good.
This is not how my new, perfect life with Stephen was supposed to go.
The two of us at opposite ends of the religious spectrum, disagreeing over whether to have children, me lying to him about using contraception, us working together on small-fry accounts in a mediocre business park. Living in Aurora, which has nowhere near the buzz or culture of Chicago, which I’ve been craving all week.
Maybe the Millie in this life is okay with a quieter life, and has grown into it, having been with Stephen since university. But I’m not that girl. I’m a different Millie now, and I don’t think I can change myself enough to fit into this world. Not even for a much-longed-for relationship with Stephen.
Oh, God.
I know what that means.
I knew finding this life had been too easy.