“Well, hey!” Jill says brightly. She leans in and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “This is Brad. My teenager.” She beams.

Brad is wearing a grass-stained, white-and-green football uniform. His thick, dark hair juts up at odd angles and is slick with sweat. He’s gorgeous. His lips are full and his blue eyes are piercing like Jill’s and fringed with long, dark lashes.

For a second, I imagine him with Margot in the lake house, Margot pinned to the wall as he kisses her neck. My face grows pink at the thought.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Sophie.”

Jill is running her fingers over the assortment of olive oils, intently studying what she’s going to select.

Brad dips his head in deference. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he says, his voice deep, his handshake strong.

Jill snaps out of her olive oil trance and looks at me as if she’s forgotten I’m here. “Brad twisted an ankle today at practice. He says he’s fine but they’re making him walk with crutches just in case.” Her eyes flutter up to her son. “He is the star quarterback, after all. And he has a full scholarship to Notre Dame next fall.” She snakes a thin arm around his waist, leans into him. He blushes at the attention.

I try and read her face, scanning it for any evidence that I’ve been ousted by Margot or by the group, but it’s a blank.

“See you soon?” I ask, with more pleading in my voice than I had intended.

“Sure, see you around,” she says briskly, with a shallow smile.

19

JACK IS SLOSHING water over the sides of the bathtub, slapping the surface of it and drenching Graham in the process.

I’m down the hall in my office nook, perched behind my laptop, but I can hear the clopping sounds of water and Jack and Graham’s bright giggles.

I’m nursing a glass of merlot, taking small, peppery sips and watching the sunset flame behind the row of pines in our backyard. I tap the mouse, bring up Facebook.

I’m just starting to scroll through my news feed when Graham, towel in hand, ducks his head in the door.

“Want to help with bedtime? He’s almost finished with his bath.”

“Gimme a minute,” I snap, a bite to my voice. “I’m paying bills,” I lie.

He slinks down the hall. I feel guilty and should hop up and apologize, but I resume scrolling.

It’s one of the first posts I see. From Margot.

Happy hour is the best hour!

And along with her status update is a photograph of the four of them: Margot in a flouncy blouse with short shorts; Tina right beside her, all grins and twinkling eyes, grasping her wineglass; Jill leaning against a barstool, her arms folded across her waist; and Callie with her hand parked on a hip, sneering at the camera. In triumph at me, I think.

A pit forms in my stomach, like an expanding pancake, and to my surprise, hot tears prick my eyes. I’m obviously out. I must be. Done and finished already as a member of the Hunting Wives. After only one week. I feel stung and a little betrayed by Tina, who seemed so genuinely nice. I grab my phone and hammer out a brief text to her.

Had so much fun the other night. Just curious (and I know this might sound a tad ridiculous) but I have to ask: did Margot seem peeved the other night because I left Rusty’s early?

The Facebook post is from an hour ago. Tina might still be with them but I can’t help myself.

A moment passes and I’m mindlessly scrolling through the rest of my news feed when my phone chimes.

I wouldn’t worry about it. If she was, she’ll get over it eventually.

I guzzle the rest of my wine, twirling the stem of the glass between my thumb and middle finger. So, Margot is upset. Tina, the diplomat, dodged my question outright but in doing so, also answered it.

The room is now dark and I sit in the sickly glow of my laptop, my vision softening around the corners from the wine. I snap my laptop shut, pad down the hall, and slink into our bedroom. Graham is turned on his side, away from me. He’s reading over his latest bid, his face crimped with focus, and I creak into bed and hug a pillow to my stomach.

I don’t like feeling this way. This pinched state of agony waiting to hear back from Margot. I don’t like what it’s doing to me. When, for instance, did I become a shrew who snaps at her kind husband? I need Rox here to slap some sense into me.

I stare at the wall. My eyes follow the groove of crown molding near the ceiling, and I hear Erin’s voice in my head from the night of the garden party: Be careful. Margot Banks is not a nice person.

Erin. Sweet and uncomplicated Erin.

I slide my phone off the nightstand, text her.

Dinner Friday night? Our place or yours. Up to you if you’re interested! I’ll roast a lamb with rosemary from the garden and roll out the Slip ‘N Slide for the kiddos.

I power my cell back off without waiting for a reply and curl myself around the pillow again. Tomorrow, I’ll get the rest of the plants in the ground, including some transplants from Erin’s garden. She’s all into the food-as-medicine thing and has given me some dandelion greens (supposed to cleanse the liver) and some Chinese sweet potatoes (the leaves taste like spinach but don’t leave that slimy film over your teeth).

I’ll write a blog post, snap some more photos of the garden, make a chicken potpie for dinner with a crust made from scratch.

Slinging a foot over Graham’s warm leg, I feel myself drifting off to sleep.

20

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

THE MORNING IS shiny and clear. A few low-slung clouds drift through the sky like barges on a river, but the sun is out and the sky is sapphire.

I’m on the trail, bright and early, and it feels as though a fever has broken. I feel like myself again. I’m running in inspired bursts and I even greet the man in his yard today.

“Morning, Harold!” I chirp as I jog by.

His binoculars thud against his chest as he lowers them, and his gaping smile reveals a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Beautiful day!” he answers, and tips his head.

Near the end of the trail, I slow to a walk and stroll down my street. The doves are cooing overhead, their soft, insistent murmurs sounding like a heartbeat, and I pause at a neighbor’s yard to admire their cotton candy–colored tulip tree, just beginning to bloom.

I’m turning in to our driveway when my phone chimes. It’s Erin, returning my text.

Erin: Sounds great! Our place. 7?

Me: Perfect.

Erin: See you guys then! I’ll make the sides and dessert. ?

Me: ?

I heat the remains of a latte in the microwave, then float to the nook to my laptop, and pound out a punchy blog post about Shinrin-Yoku, the Japanese term for a “forest bath.” I mention the health benefits—lowers your stress hormones, boosts your immunity—and select a few crisp pics of the woods and the trail, and click publish.

I feel motivated, possibly the most motivated I’ve felt since moving back, so I hop up before the feeling evaporates and cruise down the hall to the bedroom. I cast off my jogging gear and tug on an old pair of cutoffs. The denim is so worn and buttery soft that it feels supple against my skin, and I’m pleased to find I can comfortably button them without sucking in my gut—I haven’t tried them on since shedding the baby weight. I pull on one of Graham’s Chicago Bears tees and head outside to the garden.

I slip on my gloves, grab my till, and dig a fresh row for the rest of the tomato plants and Erin’s transplants. Kneeling, I tuck them in the ground, tamping down the top layer of soil with the palms of my gloved hands.

I study the adjoining, empty raised garden and think about what to plant next. Probably heirloom tomatoes, from seed, from the earmarked catalog on the bench. I peel off my gloves, wipe the grit from my hands, and crouch down. When I’m nearly level with the ground, I snap a few pics of the freshly watered basil and compose an Instagram post: #basil #gardenlife #turningbasilintopesto.

I’m midway through hashtagging when a notification pops up on my screen.

A text.

My cheeks burn as I read the name of the sender.

Margot: Hey, there. Sorry it’s taken me a while to get back to you. Things have been . . . kinda crazy. I’m about to head to the lake to lay out, if you wanna join. I have wine.

My heart feels like it’s drumming in my throat. I check the time. It’s only eleven. I don’t have to pick up Jack from preschool until two thirty. I take a second before I text back, trying to draw in a deep breath. But I can’t. Adrenaline is surging through me and I quickly type:

Absolutely! Sounds fun. See you soon.

I’m smiling so wide my cheeks feel like they’re going to burst. I must look like a madwoman out here in the yard, grinning and clutching my phone.

* * *

—

I LEAVE THE garden hose where it is, splayed next to the raised beds, and head inside. I’m practically shaking as I change into my swimsuit.

I stand over the sink, wash my face, and apply a fresh coat of lavender deodorant. (I hate the chemical, powdery stuff.) I toss on my cover-up, grab a beach towel, and race to the car.

21