The Pretend Wife by Bridget Asher

or the importance of each person in a married couple to maintain … what? Some privacy? Some sense of self? Some conversation that was theirs alone? (By which I meant: some lonesomeness?) I don’t know. What happened instead was that I took a deep breath, and the meat—was it lamb?—in my mouth shot down my throat and lodged there. At first, I didn’t do anything. The conversation went on.
    Helen started in with some questions, “What was she like, your fiancée? Do you miss her?”
    â€œI was engaged twice,” the blonde said.
    But then I heard Elliot saying, “Are you okay? Gwen?”
    I stood up and my plate fell to the floor. I turned and could see myself in the long mirror hung behind the sofa, my eyes filling with tears and my hand at my throat—just like everyone is taught. I thought: This is what it’s like not to be able to breathe. This is what it’s like to have your lungs stall. This is what it’s like to drown. Like my mother did. When she was a young woman, a young mother, younger than I am now. This is what it must have been like before someone pulled me out of the car. I’d always wanted to know, to remember, but never could, and here it was.
    And then I felt arms reaching around me, a thumb knuckle digging into my stomach, then the tug of those arms—too gentle. The meat stayed put. The next tug, though, was a sharp jolt. The meat dislodged into mymouth and I spit it onto the floor. Just like that. I started gasping and coughing. I reached up, holding on to what I assumed was Peter’s sleeve. I grabbed it hard. Everyone else backed away—the blonde in her platforms, Jason … Helen was flapping the gauzy sleeves of her dress. “Get her some water or something! Jesus!”
    I turned around and there was Elliot. “You’re okay,” he said.
    Then Peter was standing next to me on the other side, his arm around my waist. “You saved her life,” he said to Elliot. Peter Stevens of the loophole Stevenses—the man who, despite statistical probability, had sidestepped all tragedy—was thrilled by this near-tragedy. He clapped Elliot on the back so hard that Elliot almost lost his balance. “That was amazing. I owe you,” Peter said. “I owe you!”
    And this struck me as an odd thing to say. Elliot saved my life. Why did Peter owe him? But no one had to owe Elliot, really. Wasn’t he happy enough to have saved me? Wouldn’t anyone in the room have saved me, if he could have?
    At that moment the door flew open, and there stood Faith. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she was wearing sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. She was holding Edward, who was wide awake and red cheeked as if he’d just gotten off of a crying jag. She was so startlingly real that everyone froze.
    Jason was the first one to move. He looked as if he was going to try to distract her. He opened his mouth and went so far as to point at me, as I was still bent over trying to catch my breath. But he must have known this would only make matters worse. He simply stood up, gave a little bow, hunched over like my corsage, and walked towardthe door. Faith glared at the rest of us—with good reason. None of us had called her. None of us had sent him home. We were guilty too.
    She didn’t say a word. She handed Edward off to Jason. He walked out, and she gave the room one more punishing look and slammed the door.

W HAT DO I REMEMBER about what followed? It started with just the three of us—Elliot, Peter, and me—on Helen’s balcony amid the candles that had melted to waxy pools and been snuffed out. I see us now as if suspended by the smoky air, the balcony itself a small cage that the three of us were trapped in. This is where we made a fragile pact—in large part because of Helen, who would appear on the balcony and ignite everything. But the strange chain of events that was to follow