The Hunting Wives

by May Cobb

And I liked it, at first. But things that felt like a blast of fresh air when we first arrived—zero traffic, near-empty stores, bottomless hours in the day—have begun, instead, to feel oppressive.

He was so starkly different from the boys I used to date in college and in my late twenties. And I’m using the term dating loosely here because my relationships never lasted more than a few dates and always ended abruptly. I was drawn to tortured, bad-boy types. The darkly handsome ones who’d never call but would magically reappear just when you’re moving on.

I had convinced myself that it was me, that I was damaged goods. I’d never even had a boyfriend growing up,

I’d gotten far too many men interested in me to think it was just about my appearance. It had to be something deeper, something inherently wrong with me that made men not return my calls after a few nights out. Was I too clingy? Too needy? Not needy enough?

I take a deep breath and remind myself that I wanted all of this. So why isn’t all of this enough?

“Look, we all have hormones,” she said. “I get it. But you do want something stable; you do want happiness. And that schmo over there? Please.”

“Look, what you’re dealing with is a classic case of self-sabotage,” she said, grinding her cigarette out in the metal ashtray. “I’m not trying to be an asshole here, but you have to trust me. It’s not Graham. It’s you.”

“You don’t feel worthy of love, or stability, because of the way you were raised.

“So when everything is going great, your instinct is to wreck it. But you do deserve happiness, Soph. You can be whole.

but when I peered through the warbled glass door of the pub and saw the back of his head as he waited at the bar, I stopped in my tracks. He wasn’t my Graham, and I knew what I’d be in danger of losing if I stepped through that door. I turned and walked away.

As it turns out, you can’t outrun who you are. My darker urges simply followed me here and are even more amplified because it’s so quiet, and sometimes so boring.

I sometimes catch myself staring at Graham, at his open happiness and fulfillment with family life, and find myself envious of how uncomplicated, how simple his needs seem to be. I’m tired of being the complicated one.

There are big ribs of celery stuffed with pimento cheese, tea sandwiches with the crusts trimmed off, small discs of quiche, and a mountain of chilled grapes.