“I just want to touch it,” he says. “Please.”

So I part my legs a little and let him. He knows exactly what he’s doing and before I know it, I’m grinding against his hand and I know what’s going to happen next and I want it. I can imagine how he’ll feel inside of me, hot and urgent, and I’m about to give in but then I think of Graham and his belief in me, all alone in our darkened house with Jack, and I bat Jamie’s arm, twist away from him.

“Sorry, I just can’t,” I say, and push the door open, stride down the hall before he can stop me. I’m still turned on, though, but it’s not Jamie I really want, it’s Margot.

I think of her in the master bedroom, anger surfing through her. If she’s still mad at Brad, maybe we can finish what we started earlier. I remember trailing my fingers down her neck, I hear her moan all over again in my mind, and I want to kiss her neck all the way down until I reach her breasts. I know she wants it, too; I think her earlier kiss was a signal, so I stop at her door, place my palm on it, and softly open it.

The room is empty.

I scour the great room and kitchen but they are empty, too.

I have to find her.

I burst out the back door and head out into the damp night, the hem of my dress clinging to my thighs as I wade down the grassy slope, slick with dew.

I hear sounds coming from near the water, so I walk along the pier, the boards squeaking beneath me. A symphony of bullfrogs croaks all around, but as I get closer to the lake, the sounds get louder.

I step toward the boathouse and gasp.

Brad’s back leans against it. I’m still a good twenty feet away, but in the yellow glow of the boathouse lights, I can just make them out.

The front of Brad’s shirt hangs open, his jeans ride low on his hips, and his arms are wrapped around Margot, who is bent over and naked, groaning with pleasure as she bucks against him.

His hands are massaging her breasts, and as he leans in closer, she arches her head back, groaning louder. He cups one breast, lifts it, and cranes his head down to kiss her nipple.

She grunts and moves against his hips even quicker until they’re both moaning, their raw, jagged sounds skidding across the calm of the lake.

I turn and stagger away, walking as quickly as possible. Jealousy shrieks through me, and something else: foolishness. For thinking Margot wants me. For thinking I’m anything but a pawn in her attention-grabbing scheme. And rage at her for leading me on.

But also this: blinding lust. Because seeing her in that primal, savage moment only makes me want her even more.

34

THE SOLES OF my boots are slick from the wet grass, and I almost slip heading up the hill. I bang open the screen door, which slaps behind me as I stumble inside.

The house feels empty, and after surveying the rooms, I find that, indeed, it is.

Jamie’s gone.

The bottle of vodka rests on the kitchen counter, and even though I shouldn’t, I pour myself a shot and slam it back, crashing the shot glass down with a thud.

My hands are shaking and I’m rattled by the evening.

The clock on the microwave shouts that it’s twelve forty-five. I must leave. Plus, I want to be gone before Margot and Brad return from their fuck fest.

I walk over to the sofa, dissolve into it. Fumble through my bag for my keys and cell. My vision is blurry and the lights in the room seem to flicker. I’m smashed. I sink farther into the cushions and rest my head on the arm of the sofa.

* * *

—

A LOUD NOISE rattles me awake. It seemed like a boom or a blast, something that my whole body felt. I sit up, check the clock on the wall. Two forty-five. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I peer in my bag, claw around for my phone. No texts from Graham, thank god. Hopefully he’s asleep. My tongue is thick in my mouth, and my pulse jitters through my body. I’m both hungover and still drunk. I fish in my purse for my bottle of water, slug half of it.

I stand. A mistake. My stomach lurches and I feel like I’m going to be sick. But I’ve got to get out of here.

I’ve got to get home to my stable and truly good Graham, my center of gravity.

I’ve got to get home to my honey-skinned Jack, who deserves far better than this.

I’ve got to stop this thing with Margot: Anything else will lead to madness.

I stand again and the room wavers, but I walk the few steps up into the kitchen. I’m filling my water bottle at the tap when I hear a loud banging at the front door.

I go to the door and wrench it open. It’s Callie, wild haired and sweaty, a searing look in her eyes.

“Have you seen Margot?” she asks, her words slurring as if she, too, continued to drink this whole time.

“She’s not here,” I simply say. “I just woke up.”

Callie narrows her eyes at me and sighs before pushing the rest of the door open, stepping around me.

She scans the kitchen and great room, then heads down the darkened hall. She’s obviously been somewhere stewing this whole time about me staying behind with Margot alone; she can’t handle it.

I remain standing in the doorway, unsure of what to do with myself. After an apparent sweep of the back rooms, Callie weaves her way through the great room, eyes cutting me before she slides past me again.

She bolts back to her car, which I notice is the only one in the driveway other than mine. Her tires grate against the gravel as she tears away.

I shut the front door behind me, not bothering to lock it, and climb inside the Highlander.

35

IT’S WELL AFTER three a.m. by the time I turn down our street. It’s still pitch-black out, dark as an unlit hallway, but instead of heading straight home, I park at the entrance to the jogging trail.

I know it’s not the smartest move, my being alone on the trail at this hour, but I’ve got to clear my mind. I need to sort myself out before I face Graham and Jack.

I change out of my dress and boots in the front seat and into some jogging clothes and sneakers I always keep stashed in the back.

The night has cooled away the dank heat from earlier and it feels refreshing to be out here with puffs of sharp air pinging my face as I run.

Fingers of moonlight leak through the pines, and as I jog up a steep incline, I see a pool of fog beneath me, hovering over the dips in the trail. I run. I run and drift through the fog like a plane dipping into low-hanging clouds. I run until the sweat leaches out of every pore, until my whole body smells like it’s been bathed in booze, until my calf muscles burn as though they’ve been zapped by cattle brands.

I run farther on the trail than I ever have, until it dead-ends on a quiet street. My lungs are stinging as I take in huge breaths of early-morning air, but my body is flooded with endorphins, and for the first time in what seems like weeks, I can step outside of Margot’s hold and think clearly.

I crossed a line tonight. I know I did, and it was so stupid of me. And more than that, dangerous. What if Graham were to ever find out? I can’t even hold that thought in my head because if I were to lose him, I’d lose everything. I’m disgusted with myself, but at least things didn’t go any further with Jamie or Margot. They certainly could have.

I turn and head back to the house, and it seems as if I can’t run fast enough. Even though I’m hoping Graham’s asleep, I can’t get home quickly enough.

And when I step through the back door, I know what I’ll do.

I’ll leave the boys asleep while I shower in the guest bath, so as not to wake them. I’ll turn on the waffle iron and make batches of cinnamon waffles with berries and a heaping side of bacon. I’ll make Jack’s favorite drink—strawberry milk—and I’ll somehow slip out of Margot’s narcotic grip over me and be a part of their lives once more. It will be as if this whole thing never happened.

36

Saturday, April 14, 2018

IT’S AFTERNOON. SUNLIGHT beams through the kitchen window, warming the square of countertop where I stand smashing garlic heads with the blunt back of a kitchen knife.

I’m making one of Graham’s favorite pasta dishes: toasted garlic tossed with cherry tomatoes and a coating of lemon zest on top.

This summer, I plan to grow a yard full of cherry tomatoes so we can pluck them straight from the vine onto our plate.

I powered through the day, chugging multiple lattes and luxuriating in the simple, dramaless company of Jack and Graham. Well, Graham hasn’t been exactly dramaless. He’s been distant and icy all day but he didn’t mention anything this morning about my coming in so late; I’d hoped he’d slept straight through it and hadn’t noticed. And I’m not about to be the one to bring it up. That’s why I’m making his favorite pasta, hoping my offering will be enough to defrost him without having to get into things.