His Missing Wife by Jaime Hendricks (nice books to read .TXT) 📕

me Daffodil. I mentioned that it was my favorite flower when I used them as centerpieces at Jupiter’s, and he’s been nicknaming me ever since.

Evan invited James and me to dinner with his parents, as they are all excited to meet me for the first time. James mentioned that Evan and a few law school buddies who were still single had gotten a house in the Hamptons for the entire month of June, and he’s been back for a couple weeks, catching up on work, so James hasn’t seen him in a while. Evan was shocked when James sent him our wedding photo with “I’m hitched!” attached to the bottom and set this up for a proper introduction.

“They’re going to love you as much as I do,” James says.

I know how much Evan and his parents mean to James. He’s told me stories about them growing up together, and how they were like second parents to him. Since James’s actual parents are in Florida, I won’t get to meet them until we go down there for Thanksgiving. Afraid of my ID, I told him I had a fear of flying and he agreed to drive, stopping for a night in North Carolina on the way down, and South Carolina on the way home, to break up the weeklong trip.

One day, I’m going to have to tell him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. It’s a weird thing to say about my husband, and the love of my life, but… but I’ve only known him seven or eight weeks.

We make a left to a quaint tree-lined street. The lawns are manicured, dogs and small children run under sprinklers, and some properties even have little white picket fences. The Victorian-inspired houses practically rotate colors like a box of Crayolas. One red, the next blue, the next green, the next white. It looks like something straight out of a children’s picture book. We pull into the long driveway of a powder-blue house with white trim. There’s a detached one-car garage at the end and James parks the car.

What a departure from the concrete jungle I called my backyard. A sprinkler in the summer was a leaky pipe. We constantly moved from shitty rental to shittier rental, or occasionally in with whoever my mother was screwing at the time. Most times those were trailers. All of us, mashed in, fighting over a jar of pickles or a bag of dollar-store cheesy poofs or a carton of week-expired milk. Zero supervision, as mom spent her time doing dollar shots or giving dollar blow jobs at the local tavern. Super fun.

James’s arm is around me when he rings the doorbell and a guy around James’s age opens the door. Evan.

“What’s up, man?” he says as the door swings open and they hug. Then he looks at me. “You must be Tessa. I’m Evan. It’s so good to finally meet you. Come on in.”

Evan is tall and lanky, with a hipster beard and thick, dark-rimmed glasses, which are nerdy but not on him. He looks like he teaches interpretive dance at a community college. I know he’s a lawyer because James told me, and I wonder if I should tell Evan about my history, my fake ID, and have him help me fix it all—but I’m not sure that James wants him to know about any of that.

We walk in and Evan embraces me, and I know I’m going to be put on the spot when he says, “Let’s find out everything about the girl who got James married.”

My stomach clenches, and I try not to let my nerves show as I meet Mr. and Mrs. Soderberg, but my hand is shaking as they take mine in theirs and lead me to the kitchen. Mrs. Soderberg’s hair is cut into a bob, silver streaked with black, and she wears an apron around her black T-shirt and bone-colored linen pants. She takes the babka from my hands with a flourish, commenting on how I must’ve known it’s her favorite, and kisses me on the cheek, welcoming me to the family.

Looks-wise, Evan takes after Mr. Soderberg, who is also tall, although less lanky, but he’s also sporting a beard. Less hipster, more old-school. He’s wearing a golf polo with a country club’s logo and golf shorts. Same as Evan. Apparently, they “hit the links” earlier in the day.

In the wallpapered kitchen, there’s a meat and cheese feast on the kitchen counter. Mrs. Soderberg offers me a drink, red or white wine, but I opt to start with a club soda, so I don’t look like a lush. Plus, I don’t want loose lips tonight.

When I reach for a small paper plate, Mrs. Soderberg notices the burn scar on my arm.

“Oh, dear, that looks like it hurt!” she exclaims.

My eyes go wide and my mouth is open and I’m about to say—God, I have no idea what I’m about to say—when James jumps in.

“She spent most of her teens pushing dough in and out of a pizza oven,” he says, winking at me. No, he won’t tell them that my ex threw boiling water on me when I was sixteen. He looks at his best friend. “And guess what, Evan? The place she worked as a teenager was also called Emilio’s. Just like where we used to hang out! Oh, man, Tessa, let Evan tell you the story about when we got there right before it opened that one time, and what we saw through the window. He tells it best.”

And just like that, all eyes are on Evan as he regales them with the story. James gives my other arm a little squeeze. Partners.

It’s a nice feeling, having someone in my corner. Drew didn’t tell his colleagues that someone threw boiling water on me, either. He told them I poured it on myself because I’m clumsy and I couldn’t cook if my life depended on it. Ironically, half the time I did fear my life depended on presenting a hot