But we did have one pet.
Harry’s full name is Harrison Finch. So ever since he was a kid, he always owned a finch. I’m a Finch so I’ve got a finch. It was kind of his thing. He had a giant cage he kept on the first floor of our house, with an almost blindingly yellow finch inside. He loved that bird. When I saw the way he took care of his finch, I knew what a great dad he would be someday. It was something I loved about him.
And the bird’s name was Ziggy.
I keep the smile plastered on my face as I run my fingers through the dog’s soft fur. Ziggy pants happily. “Was I the one who named him?” I ask.
Graham nods. “You did. You said you were a fan of the comic strip.”
I never read Ziggy comics in my life.
I lied to my husband. I must have named the dog after Harry’s bird. Except why would I do that? I’m happily married to Graham, so why would I name my dog after an ex-boyfriend’s bird? It doesn’t make any sense.
But either way, Graham has no idea. And I’m not going to be the one to tell him.
Ziggy follows me to the kitchen, where the tantalizing aroma of eggs and bacon fills my nostrils. When we bought the house, all the appliances were old and rusted. I remember Harry kicking the refrigerator to get it to turn back on. But the entire kitchen has now been renovated. We have a giant stainless steel fridge with a built-in ice and water machine. There’s a gleaming black stove that has so many dials and knobs, I’m sure I will set myself on fire if I attempt to cook anything on it. And our old rickety wooden kitchen table has been replaced with a brand new marble island with padded swivel chairs surrounding it.
This could be one of the nicest kitchens I’ve ever seen. And it’s mine.
“Wow,” I breathe. “This is… amazing.”
Graham laughs at my expression. “It should be. You picked all the stuff out yourself.”
“I did?” I run my fingers over the flawless marble surface of the kitchen island. “Are we rich?”
He hesitates. “We’re… comfortable.”
I want to ask more questions, but I feel strange prying like that. Of course, it’s not prying if this is my own life, is it? Anyway, it’s not like we live in a giant mansion somewhere. This is the same house that Harry and I picked out together and got for a bargain. We live in Queens, New York—not Beverly Hills.
Graham grabs two white ceramic plates from a cupboard above the sink and scrapes the contents of the frying pan onto them. He sets one of the plates down in front of me and keeps the other one for himself. He also pours a cup of coffee for himself but doesn’t offer one to me.
I look down at my plate. There’s a little yellow pile of dry-looking eggs and two strips of bacon that are cooked to the point of being black. I take a nibble from one of the strips of bacon—it’s hammered. I’m sort of relieved that Graham didn’t cook the perfect breakfast. So far, my husband seems like this absolutely perfect man, so it’s good to know he has at least one flaw.
I hear whimpering at my leg. Ziggy is begging for food, his face on my lap as a glob of drool drips down onto my jeans. I look down at one of the crispy bacon strips and slip it to him. He happily gobbles it up.
Graham frowns. “You shouldn’t feed him from the table. It will make him expect it.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something else but then shuts it again. Instead, he digs into his own plate of food. He even eats the burned bacon. He doesn’t seem bothered by it. There must be something wrong with his taste buds.
I’m hungry, but I can’t seem to stop staring at this man sitting across the table from me. Graham. My husband. My freaking husband. Here we are, sitting at the kitchen table like a normal husband and wife, but we’re anything but normal. First, I know nothing about this man. Not even the slightest thing.
He’s attractive—objectively speaking—but I don’t feel anything for him. I don’t feel that pull I used to feel around Harry. Even after being together for four years, Harry and I could never keep our hands off each other. But the idea of this man even touching me makes my skin crawl. I don’t know why, because there’s nothing objectionable about him. Maybe it’s the idea that he’s a stranger who is apparently sharing my life.
That’s exactly what he is to me. A stranger.
“What’s your last name?” I blurt out.
Graham looks from his eggs and bacon. It’s such an odd question for a woman to be asking her husband, but he does not look perturbed. “Thurman.”
“Oh.” I toy with the handle of my fork. “Did I take your name?”
He nods. “Yes. You liked the alliteration.”
He certainly has my number there. I love alliteration. Tess Thurman. Although it’s not quite alliteration because the first letter of both names make a different sound. But it’s still pretty.
“How old am I?” I ask. My cheeks burn at the question. It’s humiliating to have to ask something so basic. My age. Even a preschooler can tell you how old they are.
“You’re thirty-six.”
Thirty-six. The last thing I remember before I went to bed was being twenty-nine years old. And now suddenly, I’ve lost seven years. Seven years. I’m now within throwing distance of forty. And this is not anything like the way I pictured my life at age thirty-six.
I push some of the brown eggs around my plate with my fork. “How long have we been married?”
“Four years.”
Four years. I’ve been married to this man for four years. Wow. Even though Graham is a stranger to me, he must know me very well. “Do we have children together?”
He sips from his coffee. “No.”
“Why not?”
“We just don’t.”
He acts like it’s a stupid question, but I don’t think it’s a stupid question. I wanted children—very much. It’s something Harry and I used to talk about before we were even engaged. I want to press Graham further on this, but he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it. And it’s not like there’s any shortage of questions running through my head.