“Would you like to come in and see it?” she asks suddenly. “People often knock on the door and want a tour. I never knew that owning a house could make me so popular.”

When she laughs, it’s throaty, and I wonder if she’s a smoker. Not anymore, I tell myself, eyeing her belly. It’s too flat to contain life, too hollow. Thoughts of her pregnancy rouse images in my mind—of her long legs wrapped around Seth, him pushing relentlessly into her.

“Yes, I’d love to.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Yes, I’d love to. I could smack myself. But instead, I follow her up the path and to the front door, where she pulls out a key. A tiny plastic sandal dangles from the ring. Most of the word has been rubbed away but I can still make out the M-e-c-o of Mexico. There is an immediate tightening in my belly. Had she gone there with Seth? My God, all the things I don’t know. Hannah is struggling with the key. I hear her swear under her breath.

“Damn thing always sticks,” she says when it finally turns.

I shuffle behind her, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure no one is coming. This isn’t your neighborhood, I think. What difference does it make if someone sees you? Hannah is even more beautiful than in her photos, and on top of that, she’s nice, too. Nice enough to open her home for a private tour to a complete, gawking stranger. Not such a stranger, I think as I follow her inside. We share the same penis, after all.

I’m on the verge of maniacal laughter when my breath gets caught in my throat. I make a little eh-ehm sound to clear it while Hannah deposits her keys on an ornate hook and swings around to smile at me. The house creaks around us, gently asserting its age. The hardwood floors are gleaming and spotless, the type of rustic mahogany I’d wanted to put in the condo. Seth had vetoed my choice—he wanted something more modern, so we went with a slate gray instead. I stand at the foot of a curving staircase, unsure of whether or not I’m expected to remove my shoes. I have the eerie feeling that I’ve been here before, even though I know that’s not possible. Hannah doesn’t make a move to direct me either way, so I step out of them, leaving them near the stairs. Two bright pink flats in the midst of all this cream. A distressed table sits to my right; brightly colored bougainvillea spills from a vase on top of it. There are no family pictures hanging anywhere that I can see, and for that, I’m grateful. What would it be like to see your husband in family photos with another woman? Everything is tasteful and perfect. Hannah has an eye for decor.

“It’s so lovely,” I breathe, my eyes hungry to take everything in.

Hannah, who has removed her own shoes and slipped her feet into silk slippers, smiles at me, her Nordic cheekbones sharp and rosy. Seth’s face is hard angles, too, a square jaw and a long, straight nose. I wonder what godlike creature these two have created together, and my stomach cramps at the thought of their baby. Their baby. Their trip to Mexico. Their house.

“I’m Hannah, by the way,” she says as she leads me up the staircase. And then she’s telling me about the man who built the house for his new wife a hundred years ago, and I think about how Seth’s new, upgraded wife was living in it. It was just a year ago when I agreed to it all—our plans thwarted, but our love still there. I had wanted to please him, much like Tuesday, I imagine, when she agreed to me.

She leads me through several bedrooms and two restored bathrooms. I look for photos, but there are none. Then she takes me downstairs to see the sitting room and kitchen. I fall in love with the kitchen immediately. Three times the size of the tiny kitchen in my condo, there is enough space to cook several feasts all at once. Seeing the look on my face, Hannah grins.

“It wasn’t always this grand. I gave up the second sitting room to expand the kitchen. We like to entertain.”

“It’s lovely,” I say.

“It used to have yellow cabinets and a black-and-white checkered floor.” Her nose is curled like she finds the whole idea distasteful. I can picture it, the ancient kitchen with buttery cabinets, probably hand-painted by the first owner.

“We hated it. I know you’re supposed to appreciate that old charm, but I couldn’t wait to change it.”

We. Another shock. My Seth does not like to entertain. I try to picture him standing underneath the exposed beams of this ceiling, chopping onions at the marble island while Hannah pulls something from the double oven. It’s all too much and suddenly I feel dizzy. I lift a hand to my head and reach for a chair to steady myself.

“Are you all right?” There is concern in Hannah’s voice. She pulls a stool out from the island and I sit.

“Let me get you some water,” she says.

She returns with a tall glass of water and I drink it, wondering when was the last time I had anything to drink. There was tea at lunch, and a glass of rosé. I’m probably dehydrated.

“Listen, Hannah, you invited a stranger into your house. I could be a serial killer or something. And now you’re giving me water,” I say, shaking my head. “You can’t do things like that.”

Her face looks impish when she grins, her eyes brightly mischievous. She’s significantly younger than I am, but there’s also something regal and old about her. I doubt she ever drank too many Mike’s Hard Lemonades and retched into a toilet all night like I had in my teens. No, this woman is too put together, too responsible and too well-spoken. I could see what Seth saw, the elegance. The perfect mother to the perfect child.

“Well, now’s the right time to make a snack,” she says playfully. “I haven’t eaten.” She goes to the fridge and then the pantry, humming as she pulls things out. And when she comes back, there is an assortment of cheese, crackers and fruit on a wooden board, all arranged in a very artistic and grown-up way. I feel a kinship with her, her willingness to feed a stranger. I would have done the same. I eat a few pieces of cheese and immediately feel better.

As we eat, she tells me that she’s a freelance photographer. I ask if the framed prints in the hallway are hers. She lights up when she tells me yes. And again, I wonder why there aren’t any family photos around. You’d think a photographer would have a slew of pictures in their home.

“What do you do?” she asks me, and I tell her that I’m a nurse.

“Here at Regional?” she asks, interested.

“No, no. I’m here with my husband for the weekend. I live in Seattle.” I don’t expound on any of that. I’m scared to give myself away. We chat for a while longer about hospitals and the restoration of Hannah’s beautiful home before I stand.

“I’ve taken enough of your time,” I say, smiling at her warmly. “Look, this was so nice of you. Can I take you out to lunch next time I’m in town?”

“I’d love that,” she says eagerly. “I’m not from Oregon. I moved here to be with my husband, so I haven’t made many friends.”