The Pretend Wife by Bridget Asher Page B

become right if done for a good cause?”
    â€œI could give you a semester-long answer to that,” he said.
    â€œDo you have an abridged version that runs a sentence or two?”
    â€œI know how to philosophize abstractly, but not how to apply it to my life. Is that short enough?”
    â€œVery succinct,” I said. “I guess I believe that the ends can sometimes justify the means. This is important to your mother?”
    â€œIt is,” he said, then paused. “It was irrational that I said it in the first place. And I don’t know why I then confessed it at the party. But here we are. You’ve said you’re coming out to the lake house and I’ve given you every chance to back out. And so, regardless of the ends, I like the means. Is that fair to say?”
    That was fair to say. I liked the means too, but didn’t say so. We made our arrangements quickly after that, as if we were both afraid it would fall through if we talked about it too much. He was heading out to the lake house after his Thursday-morning graduate philosophy seminar that week. We arranged that he’d meet me at the train on Saturday around noon. Even if I was a pretend wife, there was a rush, after all. His mother was real and really dying.
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    I had lunch scheduled with Faith and Helen midweek. We ate salads topped with goat cheese, tart apples, dried blueberries. I complained about the graphs that Eila made me show the clients. “Can you believe I have a job that involves graphs?”
    Faith rolled her eyes. She was in banking.
    â€œYou should be having lunch with women who make delightful references to Jane Austen,” Helen said. She was always trying to convince me to go into some other more artistic line of work, something that deserved me, as she put it. And even though this comment was part of a largerspeech that was meant to be empowering, I always took it as a scolding. I lacked the something to be an artist—a specific passion? Necessary conviction? Heart? I didn’t know what I was lacking, but I wasn’t going to find it today, and definitely not this weekend. By Helen’s definition, she wasn’t lacking. Her work as a magazine editor was artistic. She said it gave her plenty of room for creativity.
    â€œI can make references to Mr. Darcy,” Faith said defensively. “If that’s what you’re looking for. But I’m more of a Fitzgerald girl—Daisy and her shirts, his love affair with Zelda. She burned all of his clothes in a hotel bathtub. I should try that sometime.”
    â€œI don’t know that Zelda should be a role model,” I said. “Let’s remember that she also went insane and did the asylum circuit.”
    â€œHow’s Jason?” Helen asked, sipping a glass of white wine. “Have you forgiven him?”
    â€œHe’s a shit-head,” Faith said. “It’s who he is. As much as he apologizes for something he’s done wrong, he can’t really apologize for his own nature.”
    â€œThat’s harsh,” Helen said. “But, you know … I hate to say this, but it’s probably very wise.”
    â€œI’m confused,” I said. “Does that mean you’ve forgiven him or not?”
    â€œIt means I’ve accepted him,” she said, swirling her water glass distractedly. “I’m pretty sure that that’s what marriage demands.”
    â€œYou accept that Jason is a shit-head?” I said.
    She nodded. “I knew it going into the marriage.”
    â€œDoes he know this?” Helen asked.
    â€œWhat? That he’s a shit-head?” Faith asked. “I think that’s self-evident. He does have a basic self-awareness.”
    â€œBut does he know that you think he’s a shit-head?” Helen said.
    â€œIt’s one of the fundamental underpinnings of our relationship.”
    â€œSo you don’t have to have a conversation that lasts a