I leave Seattle just a little after noon with a fresh coffee in the cup-holder, cheerful music playing through the speakers. Oh, how things change from hour to hour. I’m upbeat, the radio station is playing eighties music and I sing along. If I drive fast, I’ll have just enough time to check into the hotel and freshen up before meeting Hannah for dinner. I feel a fizz of excitement in my belly, not just at the prospect of garnering information about our husband, but at doing something other than sitting at home waiting for Seth. Waiting, waiting—my life is all about waiting.

Traffic to the neighboring city is thankfully light and I make good time. Seth would have called me a speed-demon; he would pump an imaginary brake in the passenger seat when I made him nervous. When I get to the hotel, I toss my things on the bed and take a quick shower. I only brought two outfits: one for the drive back tomorrow and one for tonight. Now, as I stare down at the brown cardigan, cream silk top and jeans, I wish I’d chosen something with more color, something eye-catching. I’ll look plain and drab next to Hannah’s gazelle-like figure, my large breasts making me look plumper than I really am. I rub the fabric between my fingers and stress. Eventually, I’ve stressed too long and I don’t have time to dry my hair. The air curdles it into messy waves. I do my best to tame them a little, but in the end I have to go.

Portland’s weather is in a better mood than Seattle’s. There is no mist in the air, just the smell of exhaust fumes and pot. Hannah opens the door on my first knock, a bright smile on her face. Too bright. I give her a quick hug and that’s when I see it—a dark, brooding bruise skims the underside of her cheekbone, a sickly green color, like pea soup. She’s made an attempt to cover it with makeup, but on her fair skin, the color blooms with alarming vibrancy.

“I just need to grab my coat,” she tells me. “Come in for a second.”

I step into the foyer, not sure if I should mention the bruise or pretend she’s done an excellent job with her makeup like she’s probably hoping. I look around the foyer, checking for the missing photo that was once hanging next to the door—or so she said. In its place is a framed print of a pressed poppy. It depresses me. Pressed flowers are an attempt to hold on to something that was once alive. They’re desperate and lonely.

“Do you like it?” she asks, coming down the stairs. “I found it at a flea market. I’ve always wanted to be able to do it myself but never had the time.”

“I do,” I lie. “Didn’t you say you had a family photo there before?”

Hannah seems to flush under my gaze. “Yes,” she says, and then quickly turns away.

I think of my empty locker at work and realize she’s playing the same game I play. Hide the husband; avoid the questions. But bruises? I’ve never had to hide bruises. I think of my ear and absently lift a finger to trace the spot. Beneath my relaxed exterior, my heart beats hard against my ribs. Before the night he pushed me, I never would have been able to imagine Seth doing something to hurt a woman. And even after the night he shoved me I made excuses, blamed myself. But there’s no denying Hannah’s bruise. I press my questions down my throat until it feels like I’m choking on them.

“Hey, let’s drive separately so you don’t have to come all the way back here after the movie,” she suggests. I nod, wondering if there’s another reason. Tonight is her night with Seth; he’d arrive late after leaving Regina’s. Perhaps she didn’t want him knowing she’d made a friend. A friend would ask about her bruises, a friend would direct her eyes at the husband.

I follow behind her SUV, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. We pass through downtown, the square of food trucks, the shops, the people bundled up, all whizzing past. I barely see it. I’m too busy thinking.

We’ve just pulled up to the restaurant when I get a text from Seth.

Hi. Where are you?

I stare at his text, puzzled.

It’s six o’clock. Which means Seth should still be with Regina. It’s an unspoken rule that when you’re with one wife, you don’t text the others.

Dinner with a friend, I text back.

Nice. Which friend? The hair on my arms prickles. Seth’s not in the habit of quizzing me. In fact, he’s never asked about my friends, except to caution me not to tell them about us.

Where are you? If he’s being nosy, I have the right to be, too.

Home.

That’s an interesting answer, I think. Especially when he has three homes.

Hannah is walking toward my car, having already parked. I shove my phone deep into my purse and step out of the car to meet her.

Seth will have to wait. It’ll be a nice change, since I’m always on the waiting end. It’s funny how I care about him less when I’m with Hannah.

“Ready?” Hannah grins. The restaurant she chose reminds me a little of the Italian place Seth took me to the first time he told me about his wife. As soon as we walk in the doors, she’s approached by who I suppose is the manager. He rushes over to say hi, fussing over her as he leads us to a table. Hannah thanks him and he runs to the kitchen to get us a specialty appetizer.

“How do they know you?” I ask after a server waves at her.

“Oh, we come here a lot.” By we I assume she means her and Seth.

I notice that she keeps the bruised side of her face turned away so that when she looks up at them, they only see her good eye. It’s only once we’ve ordered our meals that I finally ask her what’s been bothering me all night.

“Hannah, how did you get that bruise?”

She lifts her hand as if to touch it and then drops it into her lap.

“If you tell me that you walked into a door or hit your face on a cabinet, I’m not going to believe you, okay? So why don’t you just tell me what really happened.”

“So you want me to make something up?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

I bite my lip thinking about what to say. “No. I want you to trust me, though,” I say carefully. “God knows I’ve made some really stupid decisions, so I’m not ever going to judge you.”

She wipes her mouth with her napkin and takes a long sip of her water. “Really, it’s like you want me to confess to something scandalous,” she says.

“Last time I saw you, you told me that your husband hid your birth control pills so you’d get pregnant. That sounds pretty controlling and manipulative to me. I’m just checking.”

She looks down at her hands, which are now folded neatly on the tabletop. She looks completely relaxed and in control, minus the U-shaped bruise beneath her eye. I stare at her, mentally willing her to tell me everything. If Seth is hitting her, I need to know. My God—it would be hard to believe, but...