Book club meets every other month or so. Besides marriage counseling and the very occasional night out with my sister, I’m home twenty-nine nights out of thirty, and still the girls resent me. Not once have they ever complained about Adam’s late meetings—which may or may not have been booty calls for amazing porno sex. Me, I go out to my stupid book club, and I’m punished for it.
“Use Clorox Clean-Up on the pee,” I tell Adam.
“Girls, I’ll be right back,” he says, following me into the mudroom. “You gonna tell them?” he asks, his voice low.
“Tell whom what, Adam?” I know what he wants to know. If I’m going to tell them about Emmanuelle.
“Look,” he murmurs. “I know I have no right to ask you anything, but I’m asking anyway. The more people who know about this, the harder it will be to make things better. Put things back to normal.”
“You should’ve thought about that, then.”
“Baby, I know,” he says. He looks at me a long minute, and irritation flickers across his face. I know this face well by now. This is the “I said I was sorry” face. The “what more do you want from me” face.
He must see something in my face. I’m pretty sure it’s the “I hate you” face. A face that never existed until The Picture.
“Tell them if you need to,” he says wearily.
“Daddy! Daddy! Come back!” Charlotte yells.
“Have fun,” I tell him.
I won’t tell. He knows it, and so do I.
* * *
An hour later, we’ve moved from the “I’m still so insightful” portion of book club to the lion’s share of our nights—gossip. I listen with half an ear, consumed by thoughts of Adam. Is he sexting with Emmanuelle? Is he watching porn on the internet? Chatting with horny eighteen-year-olds? A few weeks ago, those thoughts wouldn’t have even entered my blond little brain. Now I can’t stop wondering if coming tonight was a mistake.
“Here’s the thing,” Elle says. “I get that he wants her for sex.” My head snaps up. “I mean, she advertises a certain bad-girl vibe. Guys like that.”
“Who are you talking about?” I ask.
“Jared and his tattooed fiancée,” Lucienne says.
“Harmon doesn’t go for that type,” Claudia says proudly. “He only likes very classy women.” Last month, when Claudia wasn’t here, Elle and Debbie discussed Harmon’s sexuality at length and found it to be lacking in the hetero department.
“Rachel,” Elle says, “you know them both. Tell us about them!”
I swallow another mouthful of my red wine, which will give me a headache later tonight. “They’re really in love,” I say, eyeing the brie. So fattening. I take a healthy chunk and eat it.
“Kind of a Cinderella story, isn’t it?” Kathleen asks.
“Her mother is a tattoo artist,” Debbie says. “They’re white trash.”
“No, Debbie, as usual, you’re wrong,” I say calmly. “Her mother is a nurse. Put herself through school in her forties, as a matter of fact.”
“I hear your sister is making her dress,” Kathleen says. “The shop is beautiful, by the way.”
“Yes, she is,” I answer. “And I’ll tell her you think so.”
“Oh, Bliss? That one?” Debbie asks. “So what’s Kimber’s dress like? Whorish, I bet. Total slut?”
“Debbie, don’t be such a bitch,” Kathleen snaps.
“My sister doesn’t make whorish, total-slut dresses, Debbie,” I say, my voice uncharacteristically hard to my own ears. “So if you ever need another wedding dress, you’ll have to shop elsewhere.”
“Oh! You just got served,” Claudia crows in delight. She and Elle high-five each other.
“Rachel, honestly,” Debbie says, laughing though her eyes are cold. “What’s gotten into you?” I can tell she hopes it’s something lurid and horrible. Cancer. That would make her day.
Of course, I won’t tell them about Adam and Emmanuelle. They’re not those types of friends. Kathleen could be, I guess, but not yet. Elle and Claudia, never. Forget Debbie; I knew her in high school, and she was mean as a snake then, too. No, they’d all side with the strongest social ties, and in my case, that’s Adam. Look how many friends of Jenny’s practically trampled her to be even better friends with Ana-Sofia. And Jenny’s the type of person who knows how to be a great friend. Me, I’ve always been too shy. I have Jenny. I had Adam. I have Mom.
Maybe I need to make more friends. I look across at Kathleen, who smiles back, almost as if she knows something.
Talk between the other three has turned to Jared’s wedding, which will be huge, and if they’ll be invited, which they’d kill for. Who’s doing the cake? Cottage Confections, of course. Nothing but the best for Mrs. Brewster.
“Is Adam a groomsman?” Elle asks.
Adam is fucking a woman at work, I almost say. Was fucking. A technicality.
“No, he’s not,” I say. “I’m sorry, ladies, I have to go. I forgot I have to make cupcakes for the nursery school play tomorrow.”
It’s true. Never before have I forgotten such a monumental and life-giving responsibility. Cupcakes. “Rachel, we need you!” the director of the preschool had said. “No one else’s cupcakes are gluten-free, nut-free and still delicious!” At the moment, I’d been thrilled. Validated. That’s how pathetic I was.