Bad Mommy(45)

“Please don’t ask her to come over tomorrow,” I said.

We were in the bedroom. Jolene was brushing her hair in front of the mirror, her nightly ritual. I watched the brush travel from the crown of her head to the tips: stroke … stroke … stroke. Normally, I found it soothing to watch, but tonight it was setting me on edge. She’d run five miles on the treadmill, securing her win and probably sending Fig into a fury.

Fig often texted me to complain about Jolene. It was in a sort of lighthearted, playful way—one that wouldn’t upset a husband, but I felt her resentment cradled underneath the wit. I smoothed the sheets over my lap. I’d already taken off my boxers, hopeful, but all of a sudden, I didn’t feel like fucking.

“She’s in a really bad place,” Jolene said, setting the brush down and turning around to look at me. “I think she’s suicidal. She keeps posting pictures of railroad tracks.”

“She does that to manipulate you.” My dick was limp. I’d masturbated twice today to a picture Fig sent me. I guess I didn’t have the stamina I used to have.

Jolene didn’t argue or deny it. She set to tidying her dresser, ignoring me. That was the thing about her: she had your number, and even if you were crazy, she still made the effort to care. Welcome to being married to an enabler. I patted the space on the bed next to me and she came to sit down. Her robe slipped open and I had view of her long, tan legs. I felt my dick stir. Running a finger up and down the tattoos on her arm, I pleaded with her again.

“Every time you ask her over for dinner she stays until three in the morning.” I left out the part about how I was the one always left with Fig in the living room while she went to bed. Jolene didn’t like when I whined.

“She doesn’t understand boundaries.” I was referencing more than just her staying late. “Last time we had everyone over, Hollis asked me what time we go to bed every night and Fig answered for me.”

“You’re kidding?” she said, her face mortified and amused. I wasn’t.

“She told Hollis that we go to bed between eleven and twelve, and when I looked at her funny she added that our bedroom windows face each other and she always sees the light turn off.”

Jolene shook her head. “She does that to me too. Especially when my friends are over. It always makes me feel like I’m her pissing pole.”

“She bought your dress,” I said. “The new one. I saw her wearing it yesterday.”

“Oh god. That’s just perfect.” She sighed.

“You should say something,” I told her. “If it bothers you.”

She was already shaking her head. “No. She’s mentally fragile. If she wants to copy me, that’s fine. Half the time I think it’s in my head anyway. Maybe we just have the same taste, you know?”

I snickered. “I can prove that it’s not in your head.”

She looked at me skeptically. “How?”

“You know how you were talking about painting the dining room last week when everyone was over?” Jolene nodded. “She kept asking what color? What color? And you never really answered her.”

“Okay…”

“Post a picture on Instagram with a crazy color—something hard to get. Make it look like you painted the wall.”

She made a face, shaking her head. “You want me to play games with her? How is that healthy for anyone?”

“I want to show you how desperate she is to be you,” I said, grabbing her phone and pushing it into her hands.

“Why are you doing this? Why do you hate her so much?”

“I don’t.” I sighed. “I’m just trying to protect you.”

“Really?” she said. “Is it me you’re trying to protect?”

I doubted myself. I had to refocus, convince her. This wasn’t about me getting caught. It was about me doing the right thing.

“I’m your husband, it’s my job.”

“I’m aware,” she said, smiling faintly. “But you married me because I was the kind of girl who didn’t need protecting. That was the draw.”

I’d never said that to her, but it was true. My last relationship ended because of how needy and exhausting she’d been. Sometimes I forgot how much Jolene saw.

“So, you’d rather I not care? Wasn’t that your biggest complaint about Rey?” It was a low blow and I knew it. Rey was Mercy’s biological father. She left him before Mercy was born, and he had little to do with her, being that he lived in Alaska.

“Yes,” she said, simply. Her eyes were boring into me. What had she caught wind of? I knew that look. “You’re doing that thing you do when you’re trying to distract me,” she said.