The Hunting Wives

by May Cobb

It’s cold here. Not Chicago cold, of course, but the humidity makes it a vicious, different kind of cold that grabs its icy paws around your bones and doesn’t let go.

she leans in closer as if she doesn’t want anyone to overhear—“be careful. Margot Banks is not a nice person.”

Mapleton, Texas. A town of fifty thousand. Small enough to feel quaint at times but big enough to have a Chipotle. A quick, ninety-minute drive due east from Dallas, but nestled deep in the piney woods so that it feels a world away.

It wasn’t envy, though; I didn’t want to be her. It was so much more than that. I wanted to be near her. For her to notice me, too. The idea of it took my breath away. It became powerful and even consuming.

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

“You don’t feel worthy of love, or stability, because of the way you were raised. On some fundamental level, you’re drawn to those who don’t want you, because you didn’t feel wanted by your mom or your dad,” she said, lighting another cigarette with her dark purple lighter. “So when everything is going great, your instinct is to wreck it. But you do deserve happiness, Soph. You can be whole. This isn’t just some psychobabble bullshit. I really mean it.”

also, it seemed like the kind of place where I could conform to the version of my very best self.

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.

WHAT’S WRONG WITH me? Why can’t I be content with normal, quiet, lovely things? I mean, I am happy; there’s part of me that is fulfilled by all of this, but obviously, there’s another part that is decidedly not. I feel terrible even having these feelings; Graham is golden. Maybe everyone secretly feels this way about their lives?

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.