Lena already had a knot in her stomach when they entered the sparkling foyer of the Cow Hollow mansion. She had survived the last few Audi holiday parties, but barely, and anticipated the sneers she might receive when they saw Jack, who had not been invited. Not my fault, thought Lena. Sometimes babysitters flake. Lena wished a last-minute cancellation had been an option for her, but Ray was aghast at the idea of going alone. So she dressed Jack up as best she could, given that the wardrobe of their almost two-year-old leaned heavily toward tiny stained sweatpants, then reluctantly donned her own festive ensemble before three of them drove through Cole Valley, and down Divisadero to Glen’s massive Green Street spread.

They were all wearing holiday sweaters. The Wives. Lena felt a bit ashamed thinking of them that way—not as women, or people, but as The Wives. But that’s what they were. Here with their husbands, the upper echelon of Audi San Francisco, for a holiday dinner party. And all five of them were wearing holiday sweaters. Not in an ironic kind of way. Not because this was an ugly holiday sweater party. Just like a regular thing. That they wore. To be festive.

The men sported khakis and slim cut jeans, sport coats and bland button- downs, and laughed loudly, bragging about big sales, golf trips, and new improvements to the Quattro. Because apparently they didn’t talk about that enough at work.

Lena considered her own eclectic, funky outfit: oversized hoop earrings and dark pink high tops paired with a fitted, black-and-white striped stretch-knit skirt, and a flowy camo top that swirled around her hips. She should have saved her look for a night out with her best friend Min. What a waste.

Lena was deeply grateful that Jack, a rambunctious toddler, provided plenty of cover, allowing her to avoid most of the conversation as she chased him around, trying not to spill her gin and tonic, smiling and nodding at the occasional vague comment directed her way.

“What do you do, Lena?” asked The Wives. Well, one of them. Lena was surprised anyone remembered her name. Not that she was much better. She knew there was Diane, who lived here, and a Tania, and a Ronnie. But that was only three out of five, and their tiny noses and blonde blow-outs and wide, Botox stares blended into one organism with five lipsticked mouths. And five holiday sweaters. Lena slid her eyes down to her over-sized, rose-gold Nixon watch. She loved that watch. So bossy. Shit. Only 6:15. How early could she use Jack’s bedtime as an excuse? 7:30? 8:00?

“I’m a therapist,” she said, hoping that would be enough, but of course it wasn’t.

“Oh, how wonderful!” “What a noble profession!”

“Are you in private practice?” “Here in the neighborhood?”

“Yes, a small private practice. Off Church Street. And I work with pregnant and parenting teens at the Felton Institute, and unhoused youth at Larkin Street. In the Tenderloin.”

There was a short period of seemingly perplexed silence, and then the obligatory explosion of saviorism.

“Oh my! In the Tenderloin? How—how interesting!”

“Well! I am sure those homeless children must appreciate you so much.” “And those poor girls!”

“You are such a gift, transforming so many lives!”

“Well, I just cannot imagine how challenging that must be. And how fulfilling.”

Ray was in his element, boisterous and charming, refilling glasses, complimenting the women, and tossing out one liners that earned instant chuckles from the men, who, within half an hour of arriving, moved into “the den” to smoke pre-dinner cigars, and do—what? Man things, she supposed. Lena watched her husband leave the room, and felt she had no other choice but to stay with The Wives, and drink her gin, and chase her child. And on that chilly December night, in that big, beautiful house, the seed of consternation that had been burrowing in her belly for quite some time suddenly cracked open, and little green tendrils emerged, small, decisive seedlings loosing a flood of antipathy that pollinated Lena’s body.

Everyone was white. Except the two silent women who circulated with platters of hors d’oeuvres, then disappeared back into the kitchen. They were young and brown. The help. The Wives were all older, yoga-thin and pale, with tight, plastic skin, but still dowdy in their mom jeans and ugly clogs and terrible, terrible holiday sweaters, smiling bleached smiles and small-talking themselves into their graves. Even as she had the thought, Lena knew she was being extreme. Each of these women had a life, a family, hopes, dreams, and fears. If they were on the couch in her office, she would have compassion. She would listen, probe, help to unearth the stifled individualism that must still exist under those sweaters. But here, at the corner of Broderick and Green, at the home of Ray’s boss, Glen, a five-bedroom mansion with a chandeliered formal dining room, and sweeping views of the ocean, and a glass-enclosed deck, she just couldn’t care less about these bougie bitches and their buried humanity.

Lena thought back to the last dinner party she had attended, Min’s turkey round-up. Held every year on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, Min billed the night as a moment to relax, recover from family drama, and not eat turkey. There were all the regulars, of course. Lena brought Ray and Jack. Min’s nerdy biochemist cousin Hamlin brought his equally nerdy wife Tawiah, a neuroscientist Hamlin met and married a decade prior when they both studied in Kumasi. This year, they brought their baby twin boys, who were already eliciting cheers with their newfound sitting up prowess. There was Min’s downstairs neighbor Yasu, Min’s upstairs neighbor Laurie Ann, and Laurie Ann’s surly teenage daughter, Brooklyn. And of course, Prakash, Min’s work husband, who had started at Apple at the same time as Min, and vastly increased her career happiness quotient. Then, there were the strays, who varied year to year. This year there was Hamlin’s college roommate Lars, a good-natured, lumbering blond, in town for the week and crashing at their house, Prakash’s newest boy-toy Demarius, questionably young, but so gorgeous and charming that no one held it against him, especially when he turned up with homemade sweet potato pie, and finally, Yasu’s niece, Ichika, who had flown in from Tokyo to visit USF, her current top choice for her year abroad.

Min’s Scott Street flat was eclectic and lovely, and just right for Min, which meant that twelve for dinner—not including the high chairs—made for lots of friendly elbow rubbing. Laurie Ann and Brooklyn hauled an extra table down the stairs, and Yasu borrowed folding chairs from the music school where she took saxophone lessons. Hamlin, Ray, and Lars shoved and stacked living room furniture until there was enough room to create one huge table draped with three bright red tablecloths. Min had settings for eight, so Lena came armed with four more placemats, napkins, plates, and bowls, as well as a massive bottle of Corralejo Reposado that started the night off festive and tipsy. Everyone else threw down for the potluck. Ray prepped his signature (only) dish, a huge baking sheet full of spicy roasted vegetables. Hamlin and Tawiah brought Jollof rice and Kelewele. Yasu and Ichika fried chicken and constructed beautiful homemade mochi balls. Laurie Ann cooked up some triple cheese macaroni, and Brooklyn made her first lemon chess pie. Prakash bought a huge box of samosas from Pakwan, Min’s favorite restaurant in the Mission, and Lars lugged a case of fancy craft IPA under each beefy arm.

There was still plenty of food on the table by the time the guests slumped back in their chairs, bellies protruding and buttons undone, Jack and the twins sound asleep in the back bedroom, oblivious to the boisterous voices filling the warm apartment.

A little digestion and a few drinks later, Lena and Min dominated at charades (as usual), but Demarius was a ringer, both an amazing actor, and ridiculously intuitive, even with Hamlin’s horrendous attempt to do “general idea” of a gladiator for Spartacus, and for once, the men pulled off an eleventh- hour win, which resulted in the women dusting the last of the Corralejo, and some aggressive posturing around what was about to go down the following year.

Turkey round-up was Lena’s favorite night of the entire year. So it really wasn’t fair to compare. But still.

Here in Glen’s mansion, surrounded by sparkling white decor, and prim, tight-lipped women, Lena felt alternately awkward and invisible. Like a nanny. Or one of those servers. How could Ray be so comfortable both here, and there? She used to appreciate his chameleon nature, but more and more, experienced odd moments that led her to wonder if they were experiencing a totally different reality even when they were in the same place. Lena sighed. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe she was the one with the problem. Maybe she was up on her soapbox, as Ray liked to say, and she should just be nice.

As Jack pulled a squishy ball out of a massive toy basket in the corner, Lena wondered where Diane had hidden her three children. She was probably annoyed that Lena had brought Jack. If they had stayed home, they would be eating pizza and watching Winnie the Pooh. Jack plunked down with a giggle, sinking into the cream shag rug, and they rolled the ball back and forth as The Wives made conversation.

“We’re only taking a week in Aspen this year. Bill wants to save his vacation days for a little extra time on Turks and Caicos this summer.”

“We were thinking the same thing! Diane, Glen is such a slave driver! Can’t you do something?”

“Okay, not to change the subject, but this new organic starter I just found?

My sourdough was unbelievable last night.”

“Oh my gosh, you bake your own bread? I am so impressed. I count my blessings for Rosaura every day. I am just a mess in the kitchen!”

“Rosaura is a treasure! Thank you again for those amazing brioches you brought to PTA on Tuesday! Although of course, I was on the elliptical till midnight!”

Lena lifted her cocktail glass and was startled to encounter nothing but ice. When did that happen? She needed to eat something. The Wives had barely nibbled at the vast selection of delicious-looking appetizers. On the last rotation Lena had spied enormous shrimp wrapped in something meaty, and stuffed mushrooms, and shot glasses filled with bright liquid, doubtless gazpacho, or butternut squash soup, instead of the tequila Lena would have preferred. Everything in the house was white—or eggshell, or ivory, or bone—the rugs, couches, chairs, and ottomans—and Lena knew her likelihood of spillage was high even before a massive gin and tonic. Maybe there was more food in the kitchen? Also white, but wipeable. Could she get Jack to sit on the counter and play a sitting-still game while she ate? If so, she could have another drink. Lena scooped up her squirming son and tossed the ball back into the basket, promising Jack peek-a-boo if he cooperated.

On her way to the kitchen, she passed the den. She glanced through the doorway, and past the haze of cigar smoke, taking in wood-paneling, a huge flat screen, and the squad of car salesmen sprawled on deep leather couches. As she walked by, seemingly unnoticed, one of the men crowed something about his au pair’s race car tits, and raucous laughter rang out. She could easily identify Ray’s loud bray, and a bolt of disgust shot through her body, a wave of revulsion so deep she had to lean against the wall for a moment, and catch her breath. And all of a sudden, Lena hated Ray. Yes. Hated. She could already hear his excuses in her head. They don’t mean anything by it. They’re great people. You’re making a big deal out of nothing. It’s just stupid guy humor. Don’t you want me to get along with my co-workers? My job pays for our life.

Ray’s jarring laughter echoed in her head, and for a moment, Lena thought she might launch into a panic attack, but as she scanned her body, she realized she was calm. Heart rate normal. Temperature comfortable. Breathing regular. She stood there with Jack in her arms, his tired head heavy on her shoulder, the two of them alone in the elegant, high-ceilinged hallway, her back pressed against the wall papered in lovely pale gray pinstripes, and edged with opulent gold crown molding. And a very clear thought entered her mind, flashing like an applause sign. I do not belong here, but Ray does. These are his people.

After earning an English literature degree in San Francisco, Lindsay Michele spent ten years in the classroom, teaching teenagers how to write. Since completing her MFA in Creative Fiction from Mills, she focuses on her own craft, and supports other writers through her business, Finesse Editing. Lindsay is the recipient of the Amanda Davis MFA Thesis in Fiction Prize, and the Melody Clarke Teppola Writing Prize in Fiction. Lindsay recently completed her first novel, and is hard at work on the sequel. You can read more of her writing at Half and One, Herstry, Drunk Monkeys Literary Magazine, and the Stardust Review, and in BULL Lit Mag, and 100subtexts in spring 2024.