Two weeks earlier, Rachel had been perched on the edge of her living room sofa while she stared deeply into Matt’s eyes and promised to be less of a selfish bitch. Or, more accurately, decided that keeping her mouth shut was the best way to avoid another surprise marriage counseling session. According to Shania Fariss—their wispy marriage-maintenance specialist—their relationship’s primary area for improvement was Rachel’s lack of gratitude.
“Focus on what your partner gives you,” Shania advised. “Not what you think is lacking.” Whatever annoying habit of Matt’s that Rachel had planned to mention immediately deflated into something so small and petty, it didn’t deserve to be spoken out loud. Instead, they focused on the very important fact that Rachel was not, and had never been, very good at being his wife.
A good wife would not have slipped away during her husband’s Rising Star Award speech at the Virginia bar luncheon to send their driver to Popeye’s Chicken, causing political commentators to speculate whether a white man with a Black wife was a fan of dark meat. According to Matt, her lack of judgment said something deeper about their marriage aside from Rachel’s aversion to underseasoned poultry. The small scandal had called for another counseling session—their third in two months.
“I’m grateful for my family. My daughter.” Rachel paused, and then quickly added, “The Abbotts of course,” because everyone thought she should be grateful for them. Matt had made her one of the Abbotts, a family so royal adjacent that the press had dubbed Rachel “the DC Meghan Markle.” And like Meghan, any hint of dissatisfaction with her royal status would be met with skepticism and, occasionally, open hostility. Who wouldn’t be grateful to wake up each day swaddled in downy white privilege?
In truth, Rachel was grateful for not worrying about whether her bills were paid or there was food in the refrigerator. She was thankful for the car that always started and insurance that swallowed medical bills like magic. But Matt and Shania wouldn’t understand any of that. They couldn’t relate. He was born with money, and Shania, with her Wellesley pedigree, would probably launch into a lecture about the pitfalls of focusing on material things as if they were discussing a designer shoe collection instead of basic human needs.
When Rachel and Matt were dating, it didn’t matter that she was always broke. Their differences seemed small and romantic. Like how he would order too much food at restaurants because he knew that outside of their shared dinners, Rachel existed on ramen noodles and cheap gas station hot dogs.
“I’m grateful for this community,” Rachel continued. “How Oasis Springs has embraced me.” Fifteen years ago, she didn’t know the place existed. Their suburb was so exclusive that most Fairfax County realtors didn’t bother to include it in their guides. As an outsider, being accepted meant being useful in some way. Rachel was their First Lady. Aside from the chicken incident, a symbol of elegance. Basically, a mascot.
“Jesus, Rache. You’re starting to sound like me.” Matt exchanged another look with Shania. “I’m grateful for my wife,” he said, unprompted, because he was a lawyer and a politician and always said the right thing. “She keeps me solid. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
But they both knew exactly what he’d do. He’d hire someone to cook his meals and keep his social calendar. If his office needed an update, a dozen interior designers were a Google search away. Need a pretty girl on his arm? Toss a rock and he’d hit one of the blue-blooded socialites eager to be photographed with the next Pete Buttigieg. Everything he was grateful for could be purchased for the right price.
But she didn’t say any of that. She didn’t admit how lonely it was to be appreciated for what you did for someone rather than who you were. Remember when you thought I was funny? Remember when I took a pen from your father’s desk and you told me it cost more than a thousand dollars? And I panicked while you laughed and drew crooked hearts along my shin?
Shania gave her an expectant look. Matt pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger and gazed back at her with soft, encouraging eyes.
“I’m grateful for you too,” Rachel said, and repeated how sorry she was for the chicken thing. She mentioned his birthday and suggested a nice dinner, but Matt wanted a party. “Something with shitty food and loud music.” She’d agreed and promised to make the cake herself. “It’s your fortieth, which is a big deal. I want everything to be perfect.”
His eyes had clouded over, and he’d asked if she was happy. “Really happy. Not just… you know.”
She’d laughed and said, “Of course!” as if there were no other way to feel.
Now, Matt refused to leave the kitchen. His rambling turned him further into a cheater cliché while Rachel seriously considered picking up the knife again. Someone walked into the room and they both froze. It was Kenneth, a new associate and Matt’s mentee. His cherubic face took in the messy pile of cake on the floor, his boss’s fight-or-flight posture, and what was probably a maniacal gleam in Rachel’s eyes. “Cheryl and I were just leaving,” he said with a thumb jab over his shoulder. “But we had a great time. I wanted—”
Rachel left the kitchen before he could finish. Matt hissed her name, following close behind. She needed to get to the stairs. Her heels made clacking sounds against the tile as she moved past the foyer. Matt struggled to keep up without running. She glanced over her shoulder, and he said her name again, this time sharp and determined. Rachel shucked off her shoes and sprinted.
A few party guests watched them, wide eyed. What would people say tomorrow? That Matt Abbott chased his hysterical wife up the stairs at their over-the-hill birthday kegger? Rachel slowed at the landing and Matt gained ground. He darted ahead, blocking her path. His eyes were bloodshot and brimming with excuses. She made a fist, and he stepped back like she’d put her finger on a trigger. “Rachel, talk to me. Please.”
Once inside their bedroom, she started pacing, her bare feet sinking silently into the carpet. Maybe it was a mistake. Or an accident. Or some onetime thing he would confess during their next session. Shania would look at Rachel instead of Matt and sigh at his pathetic lapse in judgment.
Matt told her that the affair had started during a monthlong swing of small towns last August. The trip was supposed to make him more appealing to blue-collar workers, and Rachel had been ordered to stay home because she was “too elegant” to fit the narrative.
“You’ve been fucking this woman since last year?”
Matt lifted his hand to touch her. She probably looked like a wounded animal. Rachel flinched and scooted away. Roadkill didn’t look to the driver for sympathy.