Anna sighs. I can picture her seated at her kitchen table, a cup of her nasty instant coffee cooling in front of her—she likes it lukewarm rather that hot. When she’s frustrated, the ankle of her crossed leg swishes from side to side, the ankle bracelet she wears glinting against her olive skin.

“First off,” she begins, “I don’t give a flying fuck how innocent a man appears, if a woman has the tits to come forward and say she’s scared, something is going the fuck on to make her scared. You don’t need to get too involved, but you can get involved enough to give her the push to leave. We’re all just waiting for someone to stand behind us, aren’t we? Even if it’s just one person, it gives you strength.”

I bite my lip. Anna is right. I sit up in bed, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. This is so fucked. I’m compartmentalizing without even realizing it.

“But what if she’s blowing things out of proportion? I mean, I know this guy. He’s a good man...”

“Don’t be dense. Parishioners think they know their priests, aunts think they know their husbands, and meanwhile they’re molesting little boys behind closed doors. Can we really know anyone?”

I think of myself and all of the things my best friend doesn’t know about me, and drop my head. Anna is spot-on, isn’t she? Maybe we’re all pretending everything is fine when it itsn’t. He pushed me, I think. I can try to rewrite that story, blame myself, excuse my husband, but he pushed me.

Anna and I chat for a few more minutes, and when there’s a break in the conversation, I thank her and say I have to go. She hesitates when she says goodbye, almost like she suspects I’m not telling her everything and she’s giving me the chance to ’fess up. She’s given me a lot to think about. I hang up quickly and head to the bathroom to take a shower.

I’m going to call Hannah back and tell her everything. Together we could... What? Leave Seth? Find Regina and ask if Seth had ever been aggressive with her? It doesn’t matter. We can approach the options together. Like a team. I plan what I’m going to say to her as I soap my hair and let the hot water ease some of the tension out of my shoulders.

Once I’m wrapped in my towel and sitting on the edge of the bed, I call her back. I’m nervous. I chew on my lip. It rings half a dozen times before I hear her voice. Hey, it’s Hannah. Leave a message!

“Hi, Hannah. It’s me. I’m worried about you so call me back as soon as you get this. I’ll be driving back to Seattle, so anytime in the next two hours and I can answer right away. Okay, bye.”

I move to get dressed and gather up my things, glancing at the phone every few minutes to see if I’ve missed her call, but my phone remains dark and silent. I call again and this time I’m sent straight to voice mail.

“Hannah, damn it! Call me back!” I make a noise of frustration as I pull the phone from my ear, and then realize I haven’t hung up the call yet. Great. I stuff my phone in my pocket and, snatching up my bag, I head for the lobby.

I drive past their house one more time, but neither of their cars are there. Not knowing what to do, I decide to head for home. I can turn around and come back if she needs me. But four hours later, I’m pulling into the garage under my building not having heard from her. Traffic was backed up for miles. Hungry and needing to use the restroom, I waited it out instead of losing my place in the never-ending line of brake lights. I drag my things up the elevator and into my condo, kicking the door shut behind me. I drop my purse near the door and race for the half bathroom.

I emerge hungry and thirsty, about to raid the fridge, when I see movement through the door to the bedroom. My heart seizes in a panic and I freeze. Where is my phone? In the foyer where I’d dropped my handbag?

I look around for signs of my mother, who usually leaves her things on the kitchen counter when she comes over, a pile of designer leather. But everything is just as I left it, right down to the scattering of bagel crumbs near the toaster. I hear movement, feet shuffling against carpet, and then suddenly Seth is standing in the kitchen doorway. I grab at my heart, which is pounding painfully in my chest, bending over slightly at the waist and laughing at myself.

“I thought someone broke in,” I say. “You scared me.”

It takes a minute for a few things to sink in: the first that today is not Thursday; the second, Seth is not smiling; and third—there is a bandage on the knuckles of his right hand. I lick my lips, my brain working frantically. He knows! I think. That’s why he must be here, to sort me out. I’m not the type to lie. Omissions, yes, but if he asks me point-blank about Hannah I’ll tell the truth.

My eyes travel to his face, and for a moment, neither of us say a thing. It’s a staring match, one I’d rather not be in.

“What are you doing here?” I finally say.

His eyes look tired and dull, not the normally mischievous sparkle that is my Seth. My Seth! I almost laugh. I don’t know who that is anymore. Suddenly, I feel frightened.

He answers my question with another question. “Where have you been?”

Ah, a standoff. Who wants to answer first? I think.

I turn to the fridge, remembering my thirst, and grab a bottle of water from the shelf. I offer Seth one before closing the door, holding it out to him. He nods, that stony look still on his face. I toss him the bottle and lean back against the counter while I screw off the lid and drink.

“I saw a friend. I told you.”

“I know what you’re doing,” he says.

I notice his clothes for the first time, a pair of jeans and crewneck sweater that I’d laundered last week. Things that belong here at the condo.

“Have you been here since last night?” That thought hadn’t crossed my mind until I saw the clothes. Had he come here after his fight with Hannah only to find me gone?

“Yes,” he says.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know or I would have come home. Why didn’t you call?”

Seth glares at me and my stomach turns. He has strong squared shoulders, like a Lego man. Women get swoony over his shoulders, but right now they just scare me. How much would it hurt if he hit me? How hard had he hit Hannah? I picture her lithe body and milk skin—one hit, and she’d be bloody and mottled. The baby! I think in a panic. His eyes are searching my face but not in an imploring way; there’s a hardness to them that makes me shiver. This is his way: he prods without actually asking. It’s beneath him to ask questions. We are here for his pleasure.

I raise my chin at how bitter this makes me feel. Something has changed in me. Did it take days...? Weeks...? I cannot pinpoint when or how, but if the shift is noticeable to me, it’s definitely noticeable to my husband, who’s staring at me like I have Egyptian hieroglyphics tattooed on my face. That is male folly; they expect you to always be the same, reliable cow, but women spend their lives changing. Our change can swing for you or against you depending on how fairly we’ve been treated. I swing against, though I can feel the gravity of my love for him trying to pull me back down. He’s a good guy. There has to be an explanation for all of this...