“What have you done?” he says. His eyes, I notice, aren’t a sharp white. They are dingy pink, the shade you get after a long night of drinking.

I try to hide the trembling in my voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

“Yes, you do.”

I’m breathing through my mouth now. I don’t want him to see how scared I am. I don’t want him to have the upper hand.

The sink drips—it’s the only noise in the room. I hear myself swallow as the seconds tick by, my eyes still on his face.

“What happened to your hand?” I ask.

We both look at his hand. Seth registers the bandage like he’s seeing it for the first time. He splays his fingers, twisting his wrist from side to side, as he blinks at it. A piece of hair falls onto his forehead and it’s the first time I notice that his hair is wet from a shower. What are you trying to wash off?

If his knuckles look like that, what does Hannah look like?

“I hit something.” That’s all he says, like it’s a good enough explanation.

“Doing what?” My question seems to throw him off balance. He opens and closes his mouth.

“Seth,” I say. “What have you done?”

   SEVENTEEN

He lunges for me. It happens in slow motion, my brain desperately trying to catch up to reality. My. Husband. Is. Attacking. Me. I’m not prepared for it, and when his hands close around my upper arms, I scream. It’s a short, brittle sound—pathetic, really.

It’s cut off when Seth begins to shake me, his fingers digging viciously into my arms. My head snaps back and forth, back and forth, until he stops and then he’s just an inch from my face, breathing hard against my skin. I can smell liquor on his breath, and the mouthwash he tried to cover it up with. I try to break free, but he has me pinned, the lip of the marble counter digging into my back. His fingers pinch painfully into the skin of my arms and I whimper. He’s never touched me this way; it’s like I’m looking into the face of a stranger.

“You bitch,” he breathes. “Nothing is ever enough for you. I’ve risked everything...”

A fleck of spittle lands on my lip. I wrench my shoulders out of his grasp, pushing at his chest with my forearms, but instead of letting me go, his hands move to my wrists. I’m a prisoner. I can’t believe he’s saying that. I’m the one who’s risked everything. I’m the one who’s made the sacrifices.

I pant into his face, not daring to move. I couldn’t deny any of this now, her bruises, my shove. I’m awake! I think. There would be no going back. It feels like he’s going to snap the bones in my wrists, meager bones against strong hands. I’ve always liked that Seth is so much bigger than I am, but now as I cower under his strength, I curse myself. I’m in shock, trembling like a cornered animal.

He says it again, this time his words pronounced louder, more carefully, like I was too stupid to understand them the first time.

“Who. Were. You. With?”

“Hannah,” I say smoothly. “I was with Hannah.”

Both of our eyes make a choreographed move to his bandaged hand.

For a moment, his grip on me falters, his fingers go slack. I think he’s willing himself to have misheard me. I realize I’ve confirmed his fear and I need to get away from him.

I yank one arm free and shove at his chest to get him to move. If I could just get to my phone I could call somebody to help. But who? Who would believe me? What would I tell the police? My husband is yelling at me because he thinks I’ve cheated on him? Seth barely budges and now his eyes are narrowed, boring into me with intensity. I’ve never seen that look on his face before. It’s like I’m seeing a different man.

“Why?” His eyes flutter. “How? We had an arrangement. Why would you do that?”

“Yeah?” I seethe. “Or you had an arrangement. I’m sick of it. I wanted to know who she is. See her face. You get everything you want, three wives, and we’re just left to pine after you.”

“We had an agreement,” he says. “You wanted this.”

“I wanted it because it was the only way to have you. You’re hitting her. I saw the bruises.”

He shakes his head. “You’re crazy.” He looks aghast that I would accuse him of such an ugly thing.

He releases me, and all of the pressure that was pushing against me a minute ago is gone. I slump against the counter, massaging my wrists as Seth paces across the small kitchen.

His face is blanched white, causing the dark circles under his eyes to look even more pronounced. He looks sick. But I suppose you’d feel a little sick after hitting your pregnant wife, drinking all night and then being confronted by your barren wife. I feel my anger build as I watch him—the man I’d always thought so beautiful, a chiseled god. He looks a little melted, if I’m being honest—a discarded idol low on luster. I want to check my phone, see if Hannah called. What if he hurt her really badly? I move slightly toward the doorway; if I make a dash for it I can reach my handbag in the foyer. My phone is in the pocket, next to a half-eaten roll of Life Savers and my pill compact.

“Listen to me. You’re sick. It’s happening again...”

I stare at him in astonishment. “Sick...? You’re the sick one,” I spit. “How can you even say something like that to me after you asked me to live this lifestyle? You get to have as many women as you want, and we are your emotional prisoners.” Once the words are out of my mouth I realize how much I mean them. I’ve never allowed myself to think it; I was overcome by love—pressing, pressing, pressing my feelings down to accommodate him. Isn’t that what we do as women?

“Have you been taking your pills?”

“My pills?” I echo. “What would I need to take pills for?” I think of the compact, the one I’d bought at a touristy shop at Pike Place Market with the pink rose on the lid. What was inside of it? Aspirin...a couple of old Xanax from Anna? The drip, drip, drip of the sink is grating on me. There are no pills I need to be taking. That ended a long time ago.

Seth’s lips part as he blinks rapidly—gunshot blinks. He looks around as if searching the kitchen for help, all the white and silver we painstakingly chose together is blinding in this moment. I want to close my eyes and be somewhere warmer. I almost suggest moving this little accusation party to the living room when his eyes narrow sharply on me.

“I was at your house,” I say boldly. “Why didn’t you tell me you bought her a house and remodeled it? Did you think I would be too jealous to deal with it?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”