The pregnant woman next to me holds up a lipstick and asks the room if her husband is cheating. I recognize it. It’s mine. “Found this in his coat pocket last night,” she says, holding it up between two fingers. “Be honest with me, ladies. Is he cheating on me?” My eyes lock on the tube. The casing is scuffed and worn, and there—right on the side—is the Hello Kitty sticker I pressed on five years ago. That’s my lipstick. Before I can breathe, another woman laughs and points at the lock screen of her phone—a wedding photo. “Mrs. Chase, stop it. You and Sterling have been married almost three years. He treats you like you’re made of glass. There’s no way he’s cheating.” I follow her finger to the screen. The groom in the photo is my husband. My delivery-driver husband. The man I’ve been married to for five years. Sterling Chase. The room goes underwater. Their voices sound miles away. The pregnant woman catches my elbow. “Hey—you okay?” I nod. I can’t speak. My eyes drop to her left hand, and the diamond on her ring finger nearly blinds me. She catches me looking and smiles, holding her hand out a little farther. “Pretty, isn’t it? My husband flew it in from overseas. There’s not another one like it in the country.” “Of course it’s pretty,” another woman chimes in, voice thick with envy. “An six-million-dollar piece. You said you liked it, and Sterling bought it on the spot. He is obsessed with you.” Six million. I don’t even dream about it. Because I argue with cashiers over two bucks of vegetables. This is the man who couldn’t make rent? The man I’ve been married to for five years? “Obsessed? That’s an understatement,” another mom-to-be says. “Their wedding three years ago cost two million. The day they signed the papers, he transferred every asset he owned into her name.” “And since she got pregnant? Forget it. He’s got nurseries set up in three rooms—boys’ clothes, girls’ clothes, bottles, toys, you name it. Through age ten. The man is dying to be a dad.” The whole room laughs. I’m freezing. My fingertips are shaking. For five years, Sterling has refused to give me a baby. He said we couldn’t afford it. He said he didn’t want me or the child to suffer. He said wait, just wait a little longer. Three years ago, when I got pregnant the first time, he begged me for three nights straight. I cried the whole way to the clinic. Alone. I thought he was scared of the cost. I thought maybe he just didn’t like kids. Turns out he has money. Turns out he loves kids. He just doesn’t want them with me. My nose burns. I tip my head down before the tears come and pull out my phone. I text the only friend I have at the courthouse. [Can you check something? Is my marriage to Sterling Chase legally on file?] The reply comes quickly: [Yes. It’s real.] I should feel relieved. Instead my chest caves in. So what if it’s real? This woman in front of me—even if her marriage to him is the fake one—she has everything I don’t. The Mrs. Chase title. The six-million-dollar ring. The two-million-dollar wedding. The man who treats her like glass. And me? I have nothing. My phone buzzes in my hand. Incoming call: Star I stare at the screen. I can’t make my thumb move. And then, beside me, her voice goes sharp. “Star?” She’s looking right at my screen. “Your husband’s name is Star too?”
My fingers tremble around the phone. Before I can answer, the ringing dies. Three rings. Cut off. A second later, another phone rings. Hers. She swipes to answer on speaker without thinking, and his voice pours into the room. “Hey, baby. Class done?” I stop breathing. “There’s a storm coming. Don’t move. I’m coming to get you.” She giggles, scolding him. “Babe, no. You have that big meeting today. I’ll just grab a cab.” “Not a chance,” Sterling says. His voice is warm, possessive, the way it used to be in my kitchen at midnight. “No meeting matters more than you. I’m not letting you go home alone in this.” The call ends. The other women start teasing her about how lucky she is. I sit very still. Year one of our marriage, I worked a night shift on top of my day job. No matter how late I got off, Sterling would be waiting outside. I’d tell him to sleep, that I felt awful dragging him out of bed. He’d pull me into his chest and laugh. “Sleep? Not a chance. I don’t care how tired I am. I’m not letting you go home alone.” Back then, I thought I’d marry this man a hundred times over. Now he’s saying the same words, in the same voice, to someone else. My vision blurs, then sharpens. My phone buzzes. [Star: Babe, last-minute overtime. Can’t make it home tonight. I’ll come next time.] [Star: Drive safe in the rain. Take care of yourself.] Three years ago, he took a delivery route in another city. Said he could earn more there. Said once he saved enough for a down payment, he’d come home and buy us a real house. A real life. I believed him. I waited. We saw each other a few times a month, if that. I held onto every promise like it was sacred. Working overtime. He’s used that line so many times I lost count. And every time, I forgave him. Sometimes I cried for him. For how hard he was working. For us. Five years of waiting. Five years of saving up hope. And what was waiting on the other end? Another wife. Another house. Another life. He built me a fairy tale he never planned to make real. He’s never going to tell me who he actually is. Because in his real life, there’s no room for me. My eyes drift down to her bump. “How… how far along are you?” She rubs her stomach, and her whole face softens. “Just past five months.” She tilts her head. “I don’t think we’ve met. Are you new? I’m Evelyn Lockwood. Call me Evie.” Evie. Late-night phone calls. Evie in his contacts. He told me she was a pushy boss. I never questioned it. Someone elbows me. “She asked your name, hon. You with us?” I lift my chin. “Aria.” Evelyn’s eyebrows twitch a little. “Aria? Pretty.” A woman squints at the lipstick still in Evelyn’s lap, then sucks in a breath. “Wait—look at the bottom of the lipstick. Is that… an A engraved there?” The room goes quiet. Every single eye lands on me.
The silence stretches. “Wow, what are the odds,” the woman says slowly. “Same letter and everything. This wouldn’t happen to be yours, would it, Aria?” My face goes stiff. Every breath is heavy. Then she bursts out laughing at her own joke. “Listen to me. What am I even saying? Like she’d know Mr. Chase. Girl probably doesn’t even know what he looks like.” Right. Of course. A woman like me—worn jeans, gray T-shirt, pilled socks—couldn’t possibly cross paths with Sterling Chase. I see Evelyn’s shoulders relax. The little crease between her brows smooths out. But she’s not done with me. Her smile turns sweet in that careful, practiced way rich women have. “Ladies, leave Aria alone. She seems like a good girl. She’d never do something that nasty.” Then, louder, for the room. “Whoever the lipstick belongs to—she’s just some cheap mistress. Trash. She’s not making waves.” Evelyn picks up the lipstick, glances at it once, and tosses it into the trash can like it’s a used tissue. I watch it land. Something in my chest tears wide open. Sterling gave me that lipstick on our wedding day. A five-dollar drugstore tube. I kept it like it was a diamond. Five years. I’d panic if it scratched. And there it sits in the trash. Right next to my marriage. Both of them garbage. Both of them are jokes. Evelyn’s eyes drift over me—slow, neutral, the way you’d look at something at a yard sale. In a room full of designer maternity wear, I stick out like a stain. I tuck my feet under me without thinking. She catches it. Of course she does. The corner of her mouth lifts. Calm. Untouchable. “Aria, I have a closet full of clothes I haven’t even worn. If you’d like, come by and grab whatever fits. My husband buys me a whole new wardrobe every season. I can’t get through it. It just ends up in donation bags anyway. Better it goes to someone who needs it.” Then her eyes drop to my stomach. “How far along are you, sweetie?” My nails dig into my palm. “A little over three months.” The whole circle turns. Stares. A few jaws actually drop. “Three months? Are you serious? You can’t even tell.” My hand drifts to my belly. My fingers won’t stop shaking. No. You can’t tell. I work two jobs so Sterling won’t have to stretch his paycheck. I haven’t bought meat in months. I’ve been losing weight for years. Five-foot-eight, barely ninety pounds. My stomach is flat. There’s nothing there for them to see. In a room of glowing pregnant women, I look like a dried-up weed. Something close to pity flickers across Evelyn’s face. Her voice goes soft. Gentle. “Honey, you’re not eating enough. That’s not okay for the baby. After class, let me send you home with some prenatal stuff. Vitamins, protein powder, whatever you need.” I shake my head on instinct. She waves me off. “Don’t be silly. Do me the favor. Honestly, ever since I got pregnant, my husband’s been trying to feed me the entire store. I can’t keep up. I’m sick of looking at it.” I glance at the black plastic bag near the wall. Inside: the day-old shrimp I grabbed from the market this morning, half of them already gray. That’s what I’m bringing home to my baby tonight.
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