My mother leaves an hour later, promising to take me to lunch on Monday instead. “Rest up,” she says, giving me a hug.

I close the door behind her and breathe a sigh of relief.

I’m desperately tired, but instead of heading to bed, I wander into Seth’s little closet. Despite being gone for most of the week, he keeps a stash of clothes here. I run my hands over the suit jackets and dress pants, lifting a shirt to my nose to find his smell. I love him so much, and despite the awful uniqueness of our situation, I can’t imagine being married to anyone else. And that’s what love is about, isn’t it? Working with what your partner came with. And mine came with two other women.

I’m about to turn off the little overhead light and leave when something catches my eye. Poking out of a dress pants’ pocket is the corner of a piece of paper. I pull it out, at first worried the pants will be washed with the paper in the pocket and ruin the rest of the wash, but once I have it in my hands, I’m curious. It’s folded into a neat square. I only hold it in my palm for a moment before opening it to have a look. A doctor’s bill. I scan the words, wondering if something is wrong or if Seth went in for a checkup, but his name isn’t anywhere on the paper. In fact, the bill is made out to a Hannah Ovark, her address listed in the top corner as 324 Galatia Lane, Portland, Oregon. Seth’s doctor is in Seattle.

“Hannah,” I say out loud. The receipt in my hand says she was in for a checkup and labs. Could Hannah be...Monday?

I turn off the closet light and carry the paper with me to the living room, unsure of what to do. Should I ask Seth about it, or pretend I never saw it? My MacBook is sitting next to me on the sofa. I shift it into my lap and open Facebook. I have a vague sense that I’m breaking some sort of rule.

I type her name into the search bar and tap my finger on my knee while I wait for the results. Three profiles come up: one is an older woman, perhaps in her forties, who lives in Atlanta; the other is a pink-haired girl who looks to be in her early teens. I click on the third profile. Seth told me that Monday was blond, but had never given any other details about her appearance. My vision of a chill-looking surfer girl is shattered as I stare at Hannah Ovark. She isn’t a surfer, and she doesn’t have the blond innocence I was hoping for. I shut my laptop rather abruptly and stalk off to the bathroom to find my sleeping pills. I desperately need sleep. I’m feeling loopy and it’s starting to affect the way I see things.

A row of orange bottles stares out at me from the medicine cabinet. Little sentinels with purposes ranging from drowsy numbness to staying alert. I reach for the Ambien and lay a pill on my tongue. I drink water straight from the tap to wash it down and then I curl up on the bed and wait to sink into oblivion.

   FOUR

I wake up disoriented and groggy. The sun sits high outside of the window, but hadn’t it been early evening when I fell asleep? I reach for my alarm clock to check the time and see that I’ve been asleep for thirteen hours. I hop out of bed too quickly and the room spins around me.

“Shit, shit, shit.” I grab on to the wall to steady myself and stay there until I feel sturdy on my feet. My phone sits facedown on the dresser, the battery almost depleted. I have seven missed calls from Seth, and three voice messages. I call him back without listening to the messages, a sense of dread growing with each ring.

“Are you all right?” is the first thing he says to me when he picks up. His voice is strained and I immediately feel guilty for making him worry.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I tell him. “I took a sleeping pill and must have conked out for the night. I’m sorry, I feel like such a jerk.”

“I was worried,” he says, his voice sounding less tense than it did a moment ago. “I almost called the hospital to see when you left.”

“I’m truly sorry,” I say. “Is everything all right on that side?”

It’s not. I can already tell by the sound of his voice. He couldn’t possibly know that I’d found Hannah, could he? I wrap a strand of hair around and around my finger while I wait for him to speak.

“Just some trouble at work,” he says. “Unreliable contractors. I can’t talk about it right now. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

I thrill that it’s my voice he wanted to hear. Not the others’. Mine.

“I wish I could see you,” I say.

“You could take a few days off of work. Drive down and spend a couple of days in Portland with me...”

I almost drop the phone in my excitement. “Really? You would...want that?” I’m staring at myself in the dresser mirror as I speak. My hair is longer than I’ve ever grown it; it needs professional attention. I touch a limp strand and wonder if my stylist can fit me in before I leave. A little getaway seems like a good reason for some grooming.

“Of course,” he says. “Come tomorrow. You have all of that vacation time you haven’t used.”

My eyes rove over the bedroom furniture, the whitewashed woods, and rustic baskets. Maybe a change of scenery is exactly what I need. I haven’t felt myself lately.

“But where will I stay?”

“Hold on a sec...” His voice is muffled as I hear someone on his end say something to him, then he comes back on the line.

“I have to go. I’ll book a room at the Dossier. See you tomorrow?”

I want to ask him about Monday and Tuesday, if he plans on ditching them for me, but he’s in a rush.

“I’m so excited,” I say. “Tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you, too, baby.” And then he hangs up.

I call work straightaway and arrange to have three of my shifts covered, and then I call my stylist, who says she’s had a cancellation and can see me in an hour. Two hours later, I am home with a fresh color and cut, and heading to my closet to pack. I don’t remember the paper I found or Hannah Ovark until I go looking for my MacBook, which I plan on taking with me. I slump onto the sofa and stare at the screen, at the evidence of my stalking. My main screen is still open to Facebook, her smiling face staring up at me. It feels different to be doing this in the light of day, more deliberate and sneaky. I hesitate, my mouse hovering over her profile. Once I have information about her I can’t go back; it will be there imprinted in my mind forever. I click on her profile, holding my breath, but when the screen loads, I see she has everything set to private. Frowning, I close the browser and shut down my computer.

Hannah is more of a supermodel than a laid-back surfer. Her lips are full and perfect and she has the type of cheekbones you only see on Scandinavian models.

The next morning I wake up still thinking about Hannah. I try to clear my mind of her face as I carry my overnight bag down to the carport. But at the last moment, I take the elevator back upstairs and retrieve the paper from my nightstand, tucking it into the deepest, most hidden pocket of my wallet. Just in case I need her address. But why would you need it? I ask myself as I buckle my seat belt and pull out of the carport.