Free Best Kept Secret by Amy Hatvany Page A

ever thought I could be a writer. I’d sent ten query letters out in that last two months and only picked up one assignment. Every “thanks, but no thanks” response that came in the mail felt like a nail in my professional coffin.
    I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and eyed the liter of unopened merlot on the counter.
It’s cheaper in the larger bottles,
I told myself when I stood in the wine aisle at the store, debating which size I should purchase.
I’m buying them to save money.
Maybe I could have just a little more. Once I really wind down, I’ll be able to work.
    I got up, walked over to the counter, and grabbed the corkscrew that lay next to the sink. I’d stopped bothering to put it away. Digging the sharp point into the cork, I twisted until the metal spiral was deep enough to anchor the lever against the lip of the bottle. The scarlet liquid flowed into the glass, and a moment later, the first swallow rolled over my tongue and around my teeth like silk; its rich, heady scent rose up into my senses and made me weak. Within minutes, I finally relaxed enough to feel like I fit inside my own skin. I set up camp with my bottle and a goblet the size of a small grapefruit, marveling at how half a bottle could fit inside a single glass.
    Five rapidly typed pages later, my cell phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, I saw Susanne’s name pop up.
    “I’m just leaving the office,” she said, “and Brad took Anya to his mom’s. Can I stop by for a drink?”
    I looked at the document open on my laptop, the blinking cursor seeming to mock me. My social life was practically nonexistent—a couple hours spent talking about something other than Elmo and Spider-Man was incredibly appealing. “Sure,” I said. “Martin just took Charlie to his house for the weekend.”
    She blew in through the front door thirty minutes later, a bottle of Chilean merlot in hand. Her black hair was pulled back from her face with a red velvet headband. I gave her a quick hug and we settled on the couch, both with a goblet of wine.
    We chatted about work and the kids, but halfway through our second glass, Susanne paused and looked down into her drink. She bit her bottom lip before speaking, managing to smear lipstickon her front tooth. “Was divorcing Martin the worst thing you’ve ever done?” she asked. “Did it just devastate you?” The words tumbled from her mouth, falling into each other like a line of dominoes.
    I swallowed and looked down, too, running the tip of my index finger over the edge of my glass. “Divorce is hard,” I began. “But—”
    “There’s always a ‘but.’ ”
    “It’s hard,” I continued with a small smile, “but staying with Martin probably would’ve been a hell of a lot harder.”
    She blew out a long breath. “Okay, so it’s a matter of degree, then? How hard would staying be in comparison to getting a divorce?”
    “Pretty much.”
    “But is the thing that might be easier—”
    “I didn’t say divorce is easy,” I said, cutting her off. “I said it seems to be less difficult than staying would have been.” A minute distinction, but one I felt compelled to make.
    She took a sip of her drink, looking up at me over the rim. “Okay, then,” she said, after she swallowed. “Do you think choosing the
less difficult
thing is necessarily the
right
thing? If your marriage is hard, then isn’t it your duty to stay and work things out, maybe even come out stronger for it in the long run? Isn’t that the whole idea behind taking vows?”
    I was silent, grappling with this idea, not sure if I was dizzy from the thought or the wine. “I’m not sure,” I finally said. “I suppose challenges do tend to teach us more, but being alone again is another form of that, right? It’s challenging.” I tried not to sound defensive, but failed.
    Susanne set her glass on the coffee table, then adjusted her headband. “I wasn’t asking you to justify anything. Really. I’m sorry if it came across