9. Az
— ? —
Az
The restaurant is beautiful.
I notice that first, the way you notice stupid details when your brain is trying to buy time before it processes something it doesn’t want to see.
The candles on every table, the soft glow of Edison bulbs strung across the patio, the way the hostess is smiling at me like I’m someone worth smiling at.
It’s the kind of place Eli would’ve picked for us, intimate, romantic, the sort of spot where you propose or celebrate an anniversary or tell your wife you’re sorry you’ve been an oblivious asshole for eleven weeks.
I’m wearing the green dress. The one that still fits at twenty-two weeks if I don’t breathe too deeply after the appetizers.
I curled my hair. I put on the earrings he bought me in Amsterdam, the little gold ones with the tiny emeralds that match my eyes.
I did all of this because tonight matters.
Because I told myself, privately, pathetically, in the shower this morning while Whiskers sat on the bathmat judging me, that this dinner is his last chance.
He doesn’t know that.
He just thinks it’s the birthday dinner he owes me, eleven weeks late, and a chance to prove he meant all those apologies on the terrace at the industry party. I hear you, I see you. Friday, just us.
Just us.
The hostess is leading me toward the back patio, and I’m running my hand over my belly the way I do now when I’m nervous, this unconscious thing where I’m checking that she’s still there, still mine, still the one thing in my life that makes sense.
The restaurant smells like rosemary and garlic and expensive wine, and I’m thinking about what I’ll order, whether the salmon is safe, whether I should get the risotto because I’ve been craving carbs like a woman possessed…
I see the table.
I see Eli.
And I see Brynn.
My feet stop moving. The hostess is still walking, saying something about the specials, and I’m standing in the doorway to the patio like someone hit pause on a movie.
The world has gone very quiet except for the rushing in my ears, which is probably my blood pressure doing something medically inadvisable.
She’s sitting across from him. Blonde hair perfect, that cream silk blouse I complimented last month, and she’s laughing at something he said.
Her hand is on the table, close to his. There are two glasses of wine, red for him, white for her, and a bread basket between them, and she’s reaching for a piece and he’s saying something that makes her tilt her head like she’s the most fascinating listener in the world.
There are three place settings. He has added her to the dinner he promised would be ours.
My husband looks up. His eyes find me in the doorway, and I watch his face do something I’ve never seen before, this flinch, this grimace, like he’s been caught doing something he knew was wrong. Not surprised, not confused. Guilty.
I turn around and walk back through the restaurant.
My heels click on the hardwood floor in this staccato rhythm that sounds like stupid, stupid, stupid, and I’m pushing past the hostess, past the bar, past the couple waiting to be seated who are definitely staring at me.
The door feels heavy when I shove it open, and the night air hits my face and I realize I’m not breathing right.
Short little gasps, like my lungs forgot how to work.
The parking lot is half-full, nice cars glinting under the lights, and I’m heading toward my SUV when I hear him behind me.
“Az. Az, wait-”
I spin around so fast I almost lose my balance. He’s jogging toward me, that long stride eating up the distance, and his face is stuck somewhere between sorry and frustrated, like I’m the unreasonable one. Like I walked in on something innocent and overreacted.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
My voice comes out louder than I intended. A couple getting out of their Tesla looks over, and I don’t care. I don’t care about anything right now except the fact that my husband is standing in front of me with bread crumbs on his sleeve and the audacity to look confused.
“She’s alone in the city,” he says, and his voice has that reasonable tone, that let-me-explain tone that makes me want to scream. “She’s going through stuff, she needed someone to talk to. She’s our friend-”
“She’s not my friend.”
The words rip out of me, and his composure slips. Good. Let it slip. Let him see what months of being gaslit looks like when it finally boils over.
“And I’m not sure she’s yours either.” I’m shaking now, my hands trembling at my sides, and I press one palm against my belly to steady myself. “Right now she looks like a stranger, and I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“That’s-” He runs his hand through his hair, that frustrated gesture I used to find endearing. “That’s crazy, Az. She’s been my friend since we were kids. There’s nothing-”
“Don’t call me crazy.”
He stops. Guilt flickers in his eyes. Or maybe the memory of me saying those exact words on the terrace three nights ago.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “I shouldn’t have said that. But you’re wrong about this. Let me prove it to you, okay? I’ll ask her to come out here, and we’ll talk about this like adults.”
“Like adults,” I repeat, and the laugh that comes out of me is ugly and sharp. “You want to go talk to her. Both of us. Right now.”
“Yes.” He reaches for my hand, and I step back. His jaw tightens. “Az, come on. If you’re this upset, let’s just clear the air. She can explain-”
“Fine.”
The word surprises both of us. But I’m tired.
I’m so fucking tired of being the crazy jealous wife, of second-guessing myself, of lying awake at three a.m. wondering if the constant knot in my stomach means I’m losing my mind or just losing my husband.
If Brynn has an explanation, fine. Let her explain. Let me watch her try.
“Fine,” I say again. “Call her out here.”
I pull out my phone while Eli walks toward the patio doors. My hands are shaking but I manage to type: Can you pick me up? Corner of Main and 3rd. Now.
Dez’s response comes in seconds: 10 min out. I’ll wait.
A knot loosens in my chest. Not relief, nothing close to relief, but at least I have an exit that doesn’t involve sitting in a car with my husband.
Brynn comes through the door Eli holds open, her face arranged in careful concern. Her hand goes to her stomach, a gesture I’ve made a thousand times these past weeks.
“Az, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize tonight was supposed to be-”
“Save it.”
Eli steps forward, positioning himself between us like a referee at a boxing match. “Az thinks something’s going on,” he says, and his voice goes carefully diplomatic, the way it does when he’s trying to manage everyone’s feelings at once. “Between us. She thinks there’s something-”
“Oh.” Brynn’s hand flutters to her chest. Her eyes go soft, almost sad, and she looks at Eli with something that makes my stomach turn. “You told her?”
Eli freezes.
The world goes very, very still.
“What?” The word comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, before I can even process what I just heard. “WHAT did you tell her?”
“I-” Eli’s face has gone pale. “What are you talking about, Brynn? There’s nothing to-”
She moves toward him.
It happens so fast I barely register it, her stepping forward, her hand reaching for his face, her lips aiming for his mouth.
He turns at the last second, just in time, and the kiss lands on his cheek instead.
But I see it. I see her lips press against his skin, I see the intimacy of it, I see the way she closes her eyes like this is something she’s been waiting for.
I see everything.
“Good luck to you both.”
My voice doesn’t sound like mine anymore. It sounds calm, detached, like someone else is speaking through my mouth while the real me is drowning somewhere underneath.
“Az-” Eli’s wiping his cheek like her lips burned him, his eyes wide with panic. “That’s not… she just… I didn’t-”
“I’m sorry.” Brynn’s voice is soft, almost trembling, and she’s looking at me with this expression of genuine contrition that makes me want to throw up. “Thank you. For understanding.” She reaches out like she’s going to touch my arm. “Our babies can be friends, you know? We’ll still be family.”
The parking lot goes quiet. Or maybe my hearing cuts out. I’m not sure which.
“Babies?”
The word echoes in my skull, bouncing around until it finally connects with something that makes sense. Babies, plural. Our babies.
“It’s his,” she says, and her hand moves to her stomach, flat, but the gesture is unmistakable. The protective curve of her palm. The small, secret smile. “I know this isn’t how we wanted you to find out, but-”
“No.”
Eli’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp and desperate. “No. NO. We’ve never… I swear to God, Az, I never touched her. Not once. Not ever. I would never-”
“Why are you denying me?” Brynn’s voice breaks, and there are actual tears in her eyes now, spilling down her cheeks. “Why are you denying me when I’m carrying your baby?”
I’m aware, distantly, that people are watching.
I can see the phones coming up out of my peripheral vision, the couple at the table by the door, the bartender who followed us outside, strangers in the parking lot who recognize my husband’s face and know exactly what they’re witnessing.
Elliot Jackson’s wife. Elliot Jackson’s pregnant wife.
Elliot Jackson’s pregnant wife finding out about the other pregnant woman.
This will be everywhere by morning. By midnight. By the time I get home.
“Stay away from me.”
I don’t think. I just move.
My heels hit asphalt and I’m walking, then running, as much as a woman twenty-two weeks pregnant can run, toward the street, toward the corner where Dez is waiting, toward anywhere that isn’t here.
“Az!” Eli’s voice cracks open behind me. “Az, please-”
“Stay away from me.”
“It’s not… she’s lying, I swear to you-”
“Stay the FUCK away from me.”
I can hear his footsteps, hear him catching up because of course he’s faster.
But I don’t turn around. I hit the sidewalk and round the corner and I keep moving, one hand pressed to my belly where our daughter is kicking, and my breath comes in ragged gasps that might be running or might be sobbing and I can’t tell the difference anymore.