1. Audra #2
I convinced myself that was who I was supposed to be. That if I just leaned into that version of myself hard enough, I could erase the girl who had almost lost everything.
So I tried.
I worked full-time at the vet clinic while he went to college. I packed his lunches. I proofread his papers. I picked up extra shifts when tuition went up, because that was what good wives did. What safe girls did.
What girls who had learned their lesson did.
My mother moved in two years later, after her cancer scare turned into a nodule on her thyroid, after months and months of visits to different doctors and specialists just to make sure the quacks know what they're talking about.
Between her anxiety spirals and Pete's courseload, there wasn't much room left for neon lights.
Besides, most of my friends were long gone.
Pete never told me to cut them off, but he didn't hide what he thought of them either, and it was easier to drift away than to defend a life I was trying to leave behind.
I told myself that was adulthood. Responsible. Calm. Stable.
Now at twenty-four, I take Zoloft every morning with my coffee to dull the restlessness humming under my skin, something a doctor neatly filed under anxiety.
Sometimes Xanax, too, when it gets too loud, which is more often than I care to admit.
I don't dance on tables anymore. I schedule dental cleanings and remind Pete to call his mother.
I laugh again as I reread the text. Good fakes. There is something deliciously ridiculous about it. Illegal handbags in a suburban living room. Housewives pretending to be criminals over wine and charcuterie boards.
"Go," Pete encourages me again when I hesitate. "You've been working nonstop. Your mom's stable this week. I'll handle dinner. Seriously, Audra. Go have fun."
"Or," he offers with a crooked smile, "you can stay here and watch me work."
That doesn't sound like fun at all. We've had a lot of those nights in the last couple of years.
I know it's not fair to complain that my husband works too much, not after everything he's doing for me.
But dammit, I'd like a date night with him again.
It's been so long since we've been out of the house.
He smiles at me the way he always does, like I'm something precious he's proud to own, and I make up my mind.
I love him. I do. But something flickers in my chest when I read the words good fakes.
Forbidden. Illegal. A little wrong. It feels like someone has cracked a window in a room I didn't realize was suffocating me.
I tell myself it's harmless. Just a purse.
Just a party. Just a few hours of pretending I'm not the calm one. The caretaker. The steady wife.
I've been to Annette's house a few times, and it never ceases to amaze me.
Six bedrooms, four and a half baths. A backyard that would put a resort to shame, everything decorated tastefully, with no expense spared.
Tonight feels different, though. Not only because the party is louder than I expected. But because of all the people in it.
At least two dozen already-somewhat-tipsy housewives giggle and mingle in the living room that smells of vanilla candles and expensive perfume.
Soft music hums softly from hidden speakers, something trendy and breathy.
Every surface gleams: glass tables, gold accents, white couches no one actually sits on.
Marble floors, a modern chandelier that is dimmed down to reflect the atmosphere of doing something forbidding. Borderline illegal.
A second group of women, some with their daughters, crowd the dining room, laughing too loudly, wine glasses tilted like props.
Most of them I know or at least have seen before.
In the morning, when I leave for work in my old reliable Altima, they stand at the school bus stop, watching over their offspring before they're off to the gym or a walk around the neighborhood, as long as it doesn't get too hot.
"And here she is!" Annette sings when she spots me. "Audra, finally. We were starting to think Pete chained you to the kitchen."
I laugh because that's what's expected. "He practically shoved me out the door."
It's easy. Smiling. Deflecting. Playing the version of myself everyone understands.
The one who shows up. The one who doesn't make things complicated.
The one who chose this. Because this is what I wanted.
What I ran to. A life where a joke like that is a joke.
Where a husband chaining his wife to the kitchen is so far outside reality that women can laugh about it without thinking twice.
Not realizing that just a few miles away, things like that—and worse—actually happen.
My attention switches to my phone when it dings with a text from Mom:
Mom:
How long will you be gone?
Mom:
Does Pete know I need my tea at seven?
Guilt starts to creep in anyway. Quiet, familiar. This is when I usually excuse myself, pop a Xanax, and run home to take care of whatever she needs. But not tonight. Tonight I push it down and nod as Lynn, one of Annette's neighbors, chimes in with, "He's a keeper." Air-kissing my cheek.
She's in head-to-toe athleisure that probably costs more than my house payment. "My Mark asked for a spreadsheet justification."
Josie snorts into her champagne. "Mine wanted to come."
They all laugh. I smile, already scanning the room. Annette knows that I'm a purse whore. I have them all on my Pinterest boards. Gucci, Chanel, LV.
Years ago, I owned two Michael Kors and one Coach purse.
Razor was generous like that when he was in the right mood.
The MC always seemed to stumble across things like lost wallets, purses, and cash that didn't belong to anyone who could come looking for it.
Sometimes bigger things, a Rolex, a case of iPhones.
That's a part of my old life I miss. The ease of it.
The luxury. I'm just not willing to pay the kind of price Razor put on it.
It doesn't take long to spot the purses.
They are displayed along the dining table like sacred artifacts.
Rows of them. Chanel quilting. LV monograms. Dior saddle bags.
Celine totes. The lighting is strategic, soft but bright enough to make the hardware gleam.
At the center of it all stands Helena, our hostess, as her nametag calls her out.
She's older than I expected. Mid-forties maybe.
Dark hair in a sleek bob. Leopard-print blouse tucked into black trousers.
A golden belt with two interlaced Cs takes all the attention.
"Ladies," she purrs, holding up a structured black bag. "Mirror quality. Imported hardware. You could walk into Saks tomorrow, and no one would blink."
The women murmur approvingly. Lynn hands me a glass of champagne, which I absentmindedly take. My eyes have already zeroed in on a Gucci purse. The one that is on top of my Pinterest board.
Helena's eyes land on me.
New prey.
She glides closer, scanning me quickly, taking in my simple blouse, my careful makeup, my sensible heels. Her eyes follow mine. Finding the object of my desires.
"This Gucci," she lifts the one from the table. Blood red leather. Gold detail. "Would look so good on you."
My breath catches before I can stop it. It's beautiful. The kind of red that doesn't whisper. It declares.
"And it's only a hundred and twenty dollars," Helena adds smoothly. "And you know what? I'll throw the matching wallet in too."
She snaps it open. Red interior. Gold zipper.
A hundred and twenty dollars.
My brain does the math instantly. The same amount as two of Mom's specialist copays. Or almost. Thank God she has insurance. But the copays are bleeding us dry. Therapy. Gastroenterologist. Cardiologist. The mystery rash that is most likely from stress.
She doesn't have a dime to her name. She owns her house, but she rents it out. The rent covers her health insurance, with a couple hundred left over each month. That's it.
Pete's in charge of our finances and gives himself and me each a twenty-five-dollar-a-week allowance. No questions asked. Mine goes to lunches and lattes. Pete, being Pete, saves his. Stoically. Every week. The only time he uses it is when he goes to get a haircut.
When I was leaving tonight, he handed me a crisp hundred-dollar bill and winked. "Seriously. Have fun."
That hundred didn't just appear. That's four weeks of him not buying coffee. Not buying anything. That's Pete. Good. Reliable. Sweet.
The red leather gleams under the light.
"Try it on," Annette urges.
I slide it over my shoulder. It fits. Of course it does. It transforms my reflection in the glass cabinet. I look… different. Sharper. Alive.
Annette claps her hands. "Oh my God, Audra. That's you."
Lynn leans in. "It makes your eyes pop."
Josie tips her head. "It's dangerous."
Dangerous.
The word curls low in my stomach. Funny how that word used to sound like a promise instead of a warning. I didn't know the difference back then. I wonder if I would now. Or if danger is ever really that bad.
It feels like a drug sometimes, like an ex-smoker catching a whiff of someone else's cigarette.
You know better. You remember exactly how it ends.
Yet… something in you leans closer, takes a deep inhale.
Because not all danger is the same. This—this room, these women, the quiet thrill of something just a little illegal—this isn't the kind that destroys you. This is controlled. Contained. Safe.
Or at least… that's what I tell myself.
Annette turns back to Helena. "I'll take this one, this one—" She grabs two Louis Vuitton bags, one classic monogram tote and one cream Neverfull. "—and oh! That Fendi baguette. The brown one with the gold clasp."
Helena beams. "Excellent choices."
Three purses. Just like that. I look down at the fake red Gucci again. One hundred and twenty dollars. Two copays. Pete's saved allowance.