I’VE BEEN GOOD all week. I’ve written two zingy blog posts—one about the perils and joys of homemade yogurt, the other about DIY Easter crafts. I’ve cooked a bubbly veggie lasagna with fresh herbs plucked from the garden and even marched a square of it up to Mrs. Murphy’s. Yesterday morning, the seeds arrived from the catalog and I’ve already planted them all.

The garden is well looked after, weeded and maintained. And this morning, I’m chopping up a row of tomatillos, locally grown, to blend up into a salsa for a tray of chicken enchiladas for dinner. I toss the juicy green bits into the blender, cover it with homemade chicken broth and diced cilantro, pinch a hearty dash of cumin on top, and blend. Pouring the salsa over the rolled enchiladas, which glisten like cannoli, I tuck the tray into the oven.

It’s a beautiful spring day and I’ve thrown the kitchen window open. Birdsong splashes through the room, and a breeze hits my face, lifting my hair in refreshing bursts. I untie my splattered apron, drop it in the washer, and cross the kitchen to make another latte.

As the espresso machine whines and gurgles, I lean against the counter. Even though my kitchen is practically humming with delight, I think of the boring, lonely day ahead of me—a day with no social contact until I collect Jack from preschool—and the same unsettled restlessness skulks over me, making my skin crawl, making me feel like I can’t breathe.

* * *

—

WHAT’S WRONG WITH me? Why can’t I be content with normal, quiet, lovely things? I mean, I am happy; there’s part of me that is fulfilled by all of this, but obviously, there’s another part that is decidedly not. I feel terrible even having these feelings; Graham is golden. Maybe everyone secretly feels this way about their lives?

People who’ve never been abandoned don’t know what a hole it leaves. When my dad left us, it made Nikki rootless, unable to stay in one place for very long. And it made me clingy, first to Nikki—which she couldn’t really handle—and then with the bad boys I chased.

So even though I longed for this, longed for someone stable like Graham, stability feels foreign to me, and I have to fight my impulse to fidget at every turn.

I sometimes catch myself staring at Graham, at his open happiness and fulfillment with family life, and find myself envious of how uncomplicated, how simple his needs seem to be.

I’m tired of being the complicated one.

* * *

—

WHEN THE MACHINE gives its final belch, I pour the ink-black espresso into the bottom of my white mug, top it with steamed milk, and sip. My thoughts slide back to Margot. Not that they’re ever far from her, but at least these past few days, as I’ve thrown myself into domesticity, I’ve managed to have whole moments where she becomes more like background noise, ever present but a bit more muted than usual.

But as I stand in the kitchen just now, taking a break and drinking my latte, here she is again, front and center, spotlit in the forefront of my mind.

Margot in the nightclub with her slender hand pressed to my knee, the heat on my leg. Margot whispering in Andre’s ear. The two of them leading me up the stairs. Margot’s hands on my hips on the dance floor. Her eyes on mine as Andre fucked her.

A shiver runs over me. My mouth goes dry thinking about her and what might’ve happened if I hadn’t been so wasted. How far would I have let things go?

I try and push the thoughts aside but I can’t. Warmth is spreading through my chest, and before I know it, I’m walking down the hall to change clothes.

It’s Wednesday, the day Margot’s usually out at her lake house, so I slip on my bikini, pull on a T-shirt with a pair of cutoffs, and decide to head out there. Surprise her.

We haven’t spoken since Saturday night, other than the group text Tina sent the next morning.

Tina: Sophie honey, you okay?

Margot: Yeah, seriously. Can someone say lightweight? ?

Me: Totally fine. Just hung like the moon.

Nothing from Callie or Jill.

* * *

—

I CLIMB INTO the Highlander and head for the highway. The air is thick and tangy, and I lower my windows and let the wind do with my hair what it may. As I turn down the country lane, I spy a lovely farm stand on the side of the road with buckets of brightly colored flowers. I slow down and park and think, Why the hell not? I could bring Margot a bunch as a thank-you for including me in the group, so on a whim, I fish a crumpled twenty from my wallet and give it to the old lady in the straw hat whose skin is puckered from the sun.

The bouquet fills the car with an earthy, sweet smell, and I roll the windows up, not wanting to sever the delicate tops of the flowers.

Easing into Margot’s drive, I see her Mercedes tucked near the front of the house. A smile spreads across my face. I park and walk up the grassy lane, and a warm gust from the lake rushes toward me like a hug.

I step onto the cedar porch. My knuckles are about to rap on the door when I spot something out of the corner of my eye. I step in front of the window and see Brad sitting on the couch.

His head is tilted back, his eyes are closed, and Margot’s on her knees below him with her back to me. His jeans are pooled around his ankles and he’s stroking Margot’s hair as she rhythmically rocks back and forth between his legs. I freeze in place and watch them for a moment, and then, to my horror, Brad slowly opens his eyes.

It takes him a second to take me in, but when he does, he unfolds his hands from behind his head and places them on Margot’s tanned shoulders, leans down, and whispers something in her ear. And before I can turn to leave, she twists around and sees me. Her eyes aren’t mad, though, and her lips rise up into a sly smile.

I turn and walk toward the car, feeling stupid with the flowers in my hand, so I aim them at the ground, dropping them.

My heart is drilling as I climb into the Highlander. I close the door and exhale; I’d been holding my breath and my head swims. I feel dizzy.

Driving away, my face sizzles with embarrassment. I feel foolish for going out there unannounced and am trying to figure out what to say to Margot, when my phone dings.

I pull over on the shoulder to read the text.

Margot: So . . . now you know. I’m busted. And I know I don’t have to tell you this, but don’t tell the others, they wouldn’t understand. You’ll keep my secret, won’t you?

My hands are glazed with sweat and hover over the screen as I try to think of a reply. A fist is clenching and unclenching in my stomach; I don’t know what to think of this, but I let out a long, ragged breath and type:

Secret’s safe with me. Xo

27

AFTER DINNER, AS Graham tucks Jack into bed, I step into our master bathroom and run a bath. I fill the tub with scalding water and drop in a silk sachet filled with fresh rosemary from the garden. The last dregs of sunlight bleed through the blinds, and soon, the room smells like the sharp, clean scent of a forest.

I dip a hand in the water—it’s still too hot—and quickly pull it out, my skin turning bright pink. I light a small, white candle in a glass votive, take a deep breath, and wait for the water to cool.

On the bathroom counter, my phone vibrates, zigzagging across the white quartz top. I dry my hand and snatch it—I had turned the ringer off earlier so it wouldn’t wake up Jack. It’s a group text.

Margot: Sorry ladies. No hunting this Friday night. Family stuff.

A few minutes later, Tina responds.

Tina: Understood! Bill wants to go to Shreveport to the casino that night anyway, maybe I’ll join him.

Callie: We never miss. What the hell??

Jill: I was sooo looking forward to it. But honestly, I haven’t recovered from Dallas yet so prolly for the best.

I wonder if Jed somehow found out about Brad. Or if Margot’s going to meet up with Brad. I don’t know how to respond, so I just type the thumbs-up emoji.

I set the phone back down and sink into the tub. Closing my eyes, I feel my muscles go slack in the warm water. Of course I’m disappointed that I won’t be seeing Margot, but also, I’m relieved she’s canceled; I need a break. I’m still shaky from Dallas, and from what I saw Brad and Margot doing. But more than that, Graham and I are back to normal and I don’t want to rock things. I can’t.

28

Friday, April 6, 2018

I’M TEARING CRISP ribs of romaine lettuce for a salad over a large weathered bowl. Erin stands next to me, whisking the ingredients for a Caesar dressing. The rhythmic thump of her spoon against the glass bowl is soothing. So is the open bottle of prosecco we’re sharing as Graham and Ryan hunker over the grill in our backyard, searing the steaks.

Mattie has pulled Jack into her lap on the sofa and she’s absentmindedly combing her fingers through his blond locks as they watch yet another episode of Doc McStuffins. Jack’s baby quilt is balled up in his lap, and he sucks his thumb, eyes glazed over from the TV.

“So, Graham told us that you’ve been busy with freelance work,” Erin says. Her voice is warm and bright and filled with so much sincerity; I feel a stab of guilt as I lie.

“Yep, sorry I’ve had to miss out on our dinners lately. But yeah, it’s been good for me. You know what they say about idle hands and all that.”