We went berry picking earlier this morning at a nearby farm. Jack played hide-and-seek through the thick rows of blueberry bushes while Graham and I filled wooden baskets to the brim with plump, sugary berries.

“I never knew fruit could taste this good,” I said to Graham, grabbing a mouthful of blueberries from the basket, a trail of purple-blue juice streaking down my face. He didn’t say anything, just nodded.

“Seriously, these are so much better than the frozen ones we ate for breakfast,” I said, angling for more of a response from him. But he just kept on picking berries, methodically yanking the fruit off the bush with a businesslike air about him.

“Yumm-ee! Yumm-ee!” Jack echoed me, scooping up fistfuls and smashing them into his mouth.

His hands were stained blue by the time we buckled him into his car seat, his belly round and full with the mountains of berries he gobbled up between more rounds of hide-and-seek.

* * *

—

I THOUGHT JACK would drift off to sleep in the car but he fought his nap until we got home. He’s still sleeping now as Graham sifts through sketches of a new bid at the kitchen table. He sighs, takes his glasses off, rubs the bridge of his nose.

I uncork a bottle of white and take a long sip. It’s exactly what I need right now. Even though I’ve made it through most of the day, my head is throbbing with the remains of my vicious hangover, and my nerves are shot from tiptoeing around Graham.

I drag another glass down, fill it to the brim, and take it over to Graham. His jaw is set and a look of disdain clouds his face as he takes it from me. I can’t take it anymore; I have to say something.

“What is it?” I ask, my stomach doing cartwheels.

He folds his drafting papers up, thin as onion skins, and pushes them across the table.

“I heard the shower come on this morning,” he says, his eyes not meeting mine, “and I realized you’d only just come in. While you were showering, I went through your phone.”

Dread grips my gut, a vise squeezing my insides while I listen.

“I looked through your texts with Margot,” he accuses, spitting her name out as if it’s an object of disgust. “What exactly did she mean, a few weeks ago, when she said, ‘Looks like you were having fun anyway’?”

I gulp. It feels like a rock is in my throat, and my hands shake as I set my wineglass down on the countertop. How much should I tell him? That’s what I’m trying to decide when he continues.

“From her text, it sounded like you were at her lake house during a weekday. And there were other people out there. Who? Who, Sophie?” he says. This time his eyes are on me, his open stare a mixture of anger and bewilderment.

“Look. I told you these women are crazy. Margot especially.” The words pour out, and I realize it feels good to say this out loud, to share this with someone else.

“But what does that mean, exactly?” he asks, his head cocked toward the fireplace.

I decide to come clean. At least, part of the way clean. I don’t, I can’t, tell him about my obsession with Margot. And I stop short of telling him about Jamie.

“She cheats on her husband.”

Graham leans back, lets out a sharp sigh. “Go on.”

“And some of the other women do, too. Well, not all of them; there’s this nice woman, Tina, who doesn’t. And they don’t sleep with other men, or at least they’re not supposed to, they just sort of flirt and make out,” I offer, my face boiling with shame. I’m instantly filled with regret from telling him this; I’ve crossed a line. “And it’s not like it’s all the time. We really are just out there shooting guns and drinking for the most part.”

He’s nodding, biting his lower lip as if he’s working out a complex problem in his mind.

“And you?”

“Graham! Who do you think I am?” I say. Even though I try for indignant, I can hear the desperate screech in my voice, a telltale note of guilt.

He crosses his arms across his chest, tucks his hands into his armpits.

“I would never do that to you. To us,” I say as hot tears prick my eyes.

It’s a lie, but only a half lie, I tell myself. At least I haven’t fucked anyone else yet.

“Why did you wait all day to talk to me about this?” I ask.

“I didn’t want to bring it up in front of Jack; he doesn’t need to hear all this.”

I go over to him, place a hand on his shoulder, but he just sits there, square-jawed and solid in his chair, his hands digging farther into his armpits.

I lean down and place my hands on his face. Stare directly into his hazel eyes.

“You have to believe me. Margot’s text meant nothing. She was with someone that day and the man brought a friend but I promise, nothing happened between us.”

“I hate this,” he says, the words hissing out of his mouth.

“I do, too,” I admit. “I won’t hang out with them anymore, if that helps.”

“You do what you want. You know I’m not controlling like that,” he sighs. “But don’t turn me into the type of person who feels as though they need to snoop through their spouse’s phone.”

His chair scrapes the floor as he pushes it back from the table. He stands and slams his glass of wine, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Honey,” I say, my voice quiet and demure, “I love you. I wouldn’t do anything to mess us up.” I stand on my tiptoes and plant a kiss on top of Graham’s head, grab his hand and give it a tight squeeze.

He simply nods, but the gloominess in the room is slowly beginning to evaporate. He steps out onto the back patio, and I know him well enough not to follow him out there. Whenever we fight—even after we’ve made up, as I hope we have just now—he always needs a little space.

37

WE’RE FINISHING THE last of dinner. Jack is parked on my lap, his tanned hands resting on my arms as I drag the last piece of spaghetti through a puddle of olive oil.

He’s been extra clingy tonight, as if he can sense our discord, so I’m trying to flood him with attention, erase those pinched lines of worry that are stamped along his forehead. When I set my fork down, he grabs my hands and brings them to his chubby neck so I’ll tickle him. Which I gladly do over and over.

Graham has the television on. Normally, we don’t watch TV while we eat, but the Spurs are playing against Golden State and he wants to see the outcome. But really, I think he’s just trying to burrow further into his cocoon and ignore me for the evening.

I’m actually relieved, and as soon as Jack bounds off my lap and toddles down the hall toward his room, I split the remainder of the wine between our two glasses.

It has warmed by now; I prefer it cold, but it’s so soothing I don’t bother to refrigerate it and wait for it to chill. The last of my hangover is slowly melting away, and I slide an empty chair toward me and throw my feet up in the seat.

I’m not paying all that much attention to the game, but I sit up and take notice when the local news cuts through and a picture of a teenage girl fills the screen.

It’s a photo of Abby.

And beneath it, a headline beams out at me like a scream: LOCAL GIRL MISSING SINCE LAST NIGHT.

I set my glass down, grip Graham’s arm. Grab the remote and stab at the volume button to raise the sound.

“A Mapleton teenager, Abby Wilson, aged seventeen, has been missing since late yesterday evening,” a tiny, blond reporter says. She’s parked behind the news desk while her co-anchor, a broad-shouldered man with graying hair and concerned eyes, delivers the rest of the news, which I can hardly hear with the blood roaring in my ears.

* * *

—

“ABBY WAS LAST seen by her boyfriend, Brad Simmons, late last night when he dropped her off in her driveway after a date. The couple had dined earlier in the evening with Abby’s parents, Marcie and Bruce Wilson, who report never having heard Abby come home. When they woke early this morning, at around five a.m., Marcie peeked into Abby’s room and discovered her daughter’s bed was still made.”

A picture of Brad in his football uniform is flashed across the screen next, followed by a picture of Abby’s parents.

Marcie, Abby’s mother, is short and fresh-faced. Pretty but plain-looking, no makeup on, wispy blond hair pulled into a ponytail, and dressed simply in pale pink sweats. Her husband, Bruce, looks like a science teacher, with black-rimmed glasses and a button-down, short-sleeved oxford shirt.

Marcie is a stay-at-home mom, the anchor tells us, and Bruce is, in fact, a schoolteacher. Not a science teacher but rather algebra at the local middle school.

“Oh my god, Graham,” I say, my voice wobbly. “I know this girl.”

He starts to respond but I shush him so I can hear the rest of the story.

“Police aren’t assuming foul play at this early stage,” the male anchor continues, “and are hoping that Abby returns home quickly and safely. But please, if you have any information at all, call the number on the bottom of the screen.”

The number to the Mapleton Police Department flashes below before the coverage segues into the weather report.

My head swims and I feel like I’m going to be sick.