I’ve never been good with mixing alcohol, but this feels like something different. I wonder if one of the men slipped something in my drink, but then again, I was the only one affected. And why would they single me out?

Callie pulls into Margot’s drive just as the sun is oozing over the horizon. She notices me staring at her in the rearview mirror; she gives me a tight smile and a look. An unsettling look that makes me think of the mojito, the very last thing I drank, and a chill passes over me.

25

I WAKE WITH a start. The sheets are drenched with sweat; I reek of the nightclub—stale smoke swirled with alcohol and Andre’s cologne.

Graham’s side of the bed is empty, and Margot’s little black dress is pooled on the floor. I wrench myself from bed and cross the hall and see that Jack’s room is empty, too.

I wander to the kitchen. There’s coffee in the pot but the machine is switched off and it’s grown cold. A half of a silver-dollar pancake is stuck to one of Jack’s Thomas the Tank Engine plates, and there’s a terse note resting on the counter written in Graham’s handwriting:

At the farmers’ market.

It’s nine a.m. Guilt racks my stomach and I fly down the hall to get dressed. I yank on some sweats and a T-shirt, twist my hair up with a jaw clip. At the sink, I nearly vomit while trying to brush my teeth, and my hands shake. Black eyeliner is smudged underneath my eyes; I look like a street mime, but I leave it and race for the car.

* * *

—

THE FARMERS’ MARKET is packed and it takes me a while to spot Graham and Jack, but when I do, my heart leaps. I squeeze my way through the crowded rows, muttering apologies to those I’m brushing past.

Graham is at the black bean brownie table again, chatting with the girl from the other day. His head is tilted to one side, and a smile is pasted across his face. He’s flirting, I realize, and the girl juts her hip out, twirls a ribbon of long hair around her finger.

Jack is crouched beneath the table, batting at Graham’s calf, pretending to be a monster (his favorite game), but Graham ignores him and nods his head as the girl barks out a coarse laugh.

Jealousy pinches my chest, and all of a sudden I’m breathless, but I sidle up to my husband, slide my arm around his waist.

He doesn’t acknowledge me. In fact, he peels my hand off his hip and takes a tiny, imperceptible step away from me.

* * *

—

“I HAVEN’T TRIED that since college, but maybe I should again,” he’s saying to Brownie Girl, who flashes me an apologetic smile.

“We’re just talking about juicing,” she says to me with forced cheer.

“Oh?” I say dumbly. My neck burns with shame and anger.

“I’m into celery juice at the moment,” Brownie Girl offers. She’s turned her focus solely to me now, backpedaling for flirting with Graham. “It’s super good for your immune system—”

“Maaa!” Jack crawls out from beneath the table, tugs on my sweats, blissfully coming to my rescue. I smile at Brownie Girl and nod, bend down and scoop Jack up.

“Ready?” I say to Graham. “This little tiger needs a nap soon.”

“I’ll just see you back at the house,” Graham says, his eyes not meeting mine.

I stand there for a second, my mouth hanging open, feeling as though I’ve been slapped. I try and think of something to say, but no words will form, so I turn and bounce Jack on my hip as we head toward the parking lot.

* * *

—

BACK AT HOME, I lift a sleeping Jack from his car seat and cradle him to my chest, trying not to wake him as I step through the back door. I ease down the hall and settle him into bed, covering him with just a thin blanket so he won’t stir. I hear the back door open and I sigh, steeling myself for a fight with Graham.

When I walk down the hall, he is in the kitchen, washing the dishes from this morning’s breakfast. His sleeves are rolled up and suds bubble on his forearms. He won’t make eye contact.

I come up beside him, place a hand on his back. He tenses at the touch.

“I’m so sorry about last night,” I sputter. “I drank way too much. I passed out, actually,” I say, casting around for sympathy. “And since it’s out in the woods, I don’t get great cell reception, so I’m on roaming a lot, which drains my battery,” I lie. “I finally found a charger that would work, and that’s when I saw all your texts.”

He jerks open the dishwasher door and turns away from me, silently loading our everyday china into the machine.

Sweat stings my armpits, and my mouth is a box of gravel. I need something to drink. I move away from him, grab a glass, and fill it with water. Take a gulp and set it down. He’s still turned away from me.

“Well, say something,” I beg, my voice turning into a shriek.

He twists around, trains his eyes on the floor.

“What am I supposed to say?” he asks, flipping his palms up in exasperation. “I just feel like there’s something you’re not telling me. And if it’s someone else, some other guy, I want to know—”

I grab his face, press my lips to his. I know it’s the only way to defuse the situation. He resists for a second but then his lips go soft and he lets me kiss him long and slow. Eventually, he slides his arms around my waist.

I pull him closer, wind my fingers through his hair. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

He exhales and I feel his whole body sigh against mine.

“I’m sorry, too,” he pants in my ear. “It’s just weird you staying out so late and I’m here alone with Jack. It’s just . . . my mind ran away last night when I woke up and you weren’t home.”

“No, I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” And I am. I hate myself for it. I want to come clean and tell him there is no other man. But I can’t. Because there is someone else. Margot. And, of course, I won’t tell him about her because I don’t even understand myself what’s going on.

“I promise never to do that again,” I say instead. “I was out of control. These women are out of control.”

I squeeze his hand and look into his eyes, which have begun to soften.

A grin flickers across his face. “I want you to have fun. You know I’m not uptight—”

“Of course, I know that! You’re the most laid-back creature I’ve ever known and I don’t deserve you,” I say, pillowing my face into his shoulder. “It was a dick move on my part and I promise not to act like a teenager again and make you worry like that.”

He laces his fingers through mine and leads me to the bedroom. Jack’s snores purr down the hall and we close the door to our room, sinking into bed together.

I’m exhausted, so I’m relieved when Graham doesn’t undress. He just pulls me into him on top of the fluffy down comforter, and my head rests on his chest as his fingers hunt around for the remote.

“Last week’s Downton Abbey since we never got to watch it?” he asks.

“Sounds perfect,” I say and snuggle into him even tighter.

* * *

I WAKE TO the sound of something rapping at the window. It’s afternoon; Graham snores beside me while Downton Abbey still plays quietly on the TV—the servants are in a tizzy about something, all lace collars and black uniforms and cockney accents—and I grab the remote and squeeze the off button. I like this show but Graham loves it, and after last night, I’m not in the mood for their grating, whining voices.

The soft thudding at the window continues. It’s probably the thin branches of the pecan tree being whipped by the wind, but an unsettled feeling crawls over my skin, so I climb out of bed, creep toward the window.

I tug the cord to the blinds and peer out. A squirrel shimmies down the arm of a pecan branch, knocking a few pecans loose, but other than that, the backyard is empty. I exhale, and when the breath leaves my body, my lungs burn from the secondhand smoke I inhaled at the club last night.

My head is still clasped by a wrenching headache, so I head to the kitchen to get more water, and drain the tumbler in three greedy gulps. As I walk back down the hall, I pass by the picture window in the living room and see a figure moving down the street.

I scramble over to the front door and creak it open, poke my head out, and see the back of a man in a black trench coasting up the hill, away from our house.

I can tell it’s Harold, the man from the trail, by the bulk of his body and the way he shuffles up the street. I shudder and close the door. Surely, he wasn’t just in our backyard at the window. Surely, my mind is just cartwheeling, playing tricks on me from my delirious debauchery last night.

I click the door shut and lock it. Wrapping my arms around my chest in a hug, I head back to bed.

26

Wednesday, April 4, 2018