Free Listen to Me by Hannah Pittard

ecological reasons would he eschew the plastics, but for sentimental ones. Like so many others of his generation, he’d grown up with a classic red metal wagon: first he’d been carted around in it by his parents, and then, later, when he was big enough to pull it himself, he’d used it to tow the pots and pans and wooden spatulas Gwen had given him as playthings. He used his imagination to color in the fantasies, to brighten those hours of magical aloneness he spent outdoors. If they’d ever had a child, Mark would have raised him the same way. But, of course, they didn’t. There was no one to be raised in or out of his image, which was simply the fact of the matter.
    â€œIn ten more years, towns like this won’t exist,” Mark said. “Did you see all those For Sale signs? Everything is empty. It’s just not cost-effective to live in the middle of nowhere. It’s irresponsible.”
    â€œYour parents live in the middle of nowhere,” she said.
    â€œIt’s different. They live off the grid.”
    â€œNo,” she said. “They don’t. They aren’t farmers. They’re retirees. They couldn’t live without access to the city.”
    â€œMy father still teaches.”
    â€œHe’s emeritus. He teaches once a year,” she said. Then, after a beat: “When he feels like it.”
    Mark didn’t understand why she was being so aggressive, perhaps because he’d been finicky about the coffee. “You love my parents,” he said.
    â€œI do love your parents,” she said. “I love them more than my own. I don’t know what I’d do without them in my life.”
    Other wives made similar avowals to their husbands and they didn’t mean a single word. But something Mark loved about Maggie—something he was genuinely thankful for—was that she did love his parents. And they loved her. They’d taken her in so keenly, so dearly. Maggie had a way of bringing out the best in Robert and Gwen. Around her, their eccentricities fell away. His mother especially seemed to understand, without ever being explicitly told, that Maggie’s childhood had been—to put it kindly—subpar. Maggie was the first girl with whom his mother hadn’t tried to compete. Instead, Gwen—like Mark, like Robert—had fallen quite quickly in love with Maggie.
    â€œI only meant,” he said, “that if they wanted, they could live without access to the city. But they don’t want to.”
    Maggie nodded. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I know exactly what you meant. I’m being snippy. My mind is somewhere else.”
    Mark had a great affinity for Maggie’s mind. He’d fallen first, yes, for her looks—that goofy gap between her teeth hidden always just behind her plump upper lip. But he’d been seduced ultimately by her brain—its quirks, its ambitions. There were nights still when he would wake with a start, fearing the evening on the riverboat had been a dream, fearing he’d never met her. Lately, though, he was frightened that her mind might be morphing. He wanted desperately to keep it safe and steady.
    â€œWhere is it now?” he said. “Your mind? What are you thinking?”
    â€œAre you making fun?”
    â€œNot at all,” he said. “Tell me.”
    She massaged the steering wheel with both hands. After a minute, she said, “Do you think you willfully see the worst in people?”
    â€œHow do you mean? I don’t understand.”
    â€œTypically speaking, do you think you’ve been pessimistic or optimistic?”
    â€œOptimistic,” he said. “Where’s this coming from?”
    â€œTypically speaking,” she said, “do you think you’ve been even-tempered or are you prone to moodiness?”
    â€œMoodiness?” he said. “Is this part of your test?”
    â€œStrong changes of mood,” she