I’ve always known my husband is an excellent liar. It just never bothered me until I suspected he was hiding something from me.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Jonathan and Suzette beat us to the beach. Even though we were likely driving faster, they didn’t get pulled over by the cops on the way over.

We park in the special fancy lot for the private beach, and when I get out of the car, Jonathan and Suzette are making their way to the entrance, which is guarded by a tough-looking guy in a black wife-beater T-shirt and swim shorts. He’s like the private beach equivalent of a bouncer.

Jonathan is carrying two beach chairs and an umbrella, while Suzette just has a small tote bag slung over her shoulder. Jonathan looks like the typical beachgoer at the beginning of the season—a little too pale, a bit of a gut hanging over his swim trunks, his white feet shoved into a pair of flip-flops, a baseball cap covering his thinning hair. Suzette, on the other hand, looks like she has been going to the beach all winter. She is perfectly tanned, her Cartier sunglasses perched on her nose, and she is wearing a tiny bikini that shows off a spectacularly fit body.

After two children and forty-plus years of gravity taking its toll, my body doesn’t look like that. It can’t. But even when I was twenty-five, I never felt comfortable prancing around the beach in a bikini the size of a handkerchief, so today I am wearing a modest one-piece bathing suit with a cover-up over it. And much like Jonathan, I am painfully pale. I probably won’t take the cover-up off the whole time, since I’m not much of a swimmer.

The beach bouncer is checking out Suzette in her teeny tiny bikini. Actually, a lot of people are checking out Suzette. Even I’m having trouble not staring a bit. When does she have time to get her belly that firm? And I’m guessing she doesn’t have any C-section scars or stretch marks she needs to cover up.

Enzo has his T-shirt and trunks on, and he is wrangling our own beach furniture he pulled from the trunk. To be honest, I wouldn’t have blamed him if he were checking Suzette out in that tiny bikini—he’s only human—but I don’t catch his gaze dipping below the neckline.

“Millie!” Suzette says. “What an… interesting cover-up you have on. I love how you don’t feel like you need to spend a ton of money on a beach outfit. That is so you.”

That was a backhanded compliment if there ever was one. But I can’t really argue with it. I got the cover-up from the discount rack.

And while Enzo has not been checking out Suzette, I can’t say the same for her. Her cool blue-green eyes rake over his body, and her lips curl. And he hasn’t even taken his shirt off yet.

We’re not even on the beach yet, and suddenly I want to go home. But I suppose it’s better I’m here instead of leaving him alone with Suzette in her tiny bikini.

“Did you have trouble finding the beach?” Suzette asks. “We were wondering if you guys got lost along the way.”

Nico quickly spills the beans. “Dad got pulled over by the cops.”

Enzo laughs. “I was going too fast, they said.”

“I’m sure you weren’t.” Suzette shakes her head. “The police around here are so overzealous.”

“Well, we’re glad you could make it,” Jonathan says. Unlike his wife, there doesn’t seem to be any overtone in his statement. He seems genuinely glad to see us. “How are you doing, Nico? We miss you coming over to do chores.”

It’s kind of Jonathan to say that, even though really I know they were sick of having Nico over at their house and breaking half their living room.

Nico shrugs.

I want to tell him he’s being rude, but it feels like there’s almost no point. His moodiness has gotten even worse lately. I finally called his pediatrician and took him in for a visit, but after listening to his heart and lungs, she didn’t have much else to add. She didn’t recommend therapy. In fact, she said the same exact thing Enzo said: Boys can be aggressive sometimes. He’s probably still adjusting to the move. Just give it time.

“Where are the clients we’re meeting?” I ask Suzette.

“Oh.” She shrugs. “They canceled.”

Enzo doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised, which makes me wonder if there was ever a client to begin with. I mean, a beach meeting? That sounded so made up.

But no, I’m being paranoid. I’m sure there was a client. People do cancel.

Suzette leads us to the beach to find the perfect spot to set up. Except she can’t seem to decide on the perfect spot. We tromp through half the beach, past several spots that seem perfectly fine. Poor Jonathan is struggling with carrying the two chairs and umbrella, so I offer to grab the umbrella for him in addition to our own. Suzette could offer to carry at least one thing, but she doesn’t seem inclined to do so. Jonathan is pretty good-natured about the whole thing though.

“Okay,” she finally says when it feels like my arms are about to fall off. “This seems good.”

Jonathan drops the two chairs on the ground, but just as he’s flexing his arms, she says, “Wait, maybe we should go down that way. The sun is better over there.”

Jonathan is ready to pick up the chairs again, but I’ve had enough. “Suzette,” I say, “this is perfect. And I’m not walking one more step.”

She rolls her eyes. “All right, all right. But, Millie, walking is good for you. It’s slimming.”

Would punching her in the face be slimming? Because that might happen today.

After we get our chairs and towels set up, I grab the spray bottle of sunscreen from my tote bag. Enzo always refuses it, but I like to spray it on the kids and definitely on myself. I’m the only one who ever gets sunburned, but isn’t sunscreen supposed to prevent cancer or something like that? Anyway, the kids don’t have a choice.

“Oh, Millie,” Suzette gasps as she watches me spray down Ada. “You’re not actually spraying sunscreen on your children, are you?”

I obviously am. “Yes…”

“Well, you know the spray has all sorts of toxic chemicals in it,” she says. “And it’s all in the air now. We’re basically all inhaling sunscreen now.”

Should I be more bothered about the fact that I might be inhaling sunscreen? Somehow, I’m not. “Uh-huh…”

“Also,” she adds, “it’s flammable.”

Nico’s eyes widen. “You mean we could catch on fire?”

“You’re not going to catch on fire from your sunscreen,” I tell him.

He looks disappointed.

Suzette reaches into her own bag and pulls out a white tube. “This is the best sunscreen on the market. It’s all natural ingredients, and it has SPF 200! You can’t find SPF 200 anywhere.”

Why on earth would we need sunscreen that is SPF 200? Does she think we’re going to be running through a circle of fire to get to the water?

Enzo has taken off his T-shirt, and I can’t help but notice the way Suzette’s eyes bulge as she looks over his dark, sculpted chest. I love that I have a handsome, muscular husband. But also, sometimes I wish he would let himself get fat and out of shape.

“Enzo,” she says, “would you like to try my sunscreen?”

He laughs. “I do not need. I never get burns.”

“Yes, but this is good for you even if you don’t get burned,” she says. “It prevents skin cancer, you know.”

“Yeah?” Enzo says with interest, although I have been saying the exact same thing to him for the last decade.

“Yes, of course it does,” she says eagerly. “You should at least put it on your shoulders. Here, let me help you.”

My mouth falls open as Suzette squeezes some sunscreen onto her palm and then starts rubbing it onto my husband’s shoulders. Is she really doing this? Is she really rubbing sunscreen all over my husband? This seems wildly inappropriate.

I look over at Jonathan, expecting that he will seem as horrified as I feel. But he has his own tube of obscenely expensive sunscreen that is apparently made for people who will be vacationing on the sun, and he’s rubbing lotion onto his arms. Then he tries to get some on his back, but he can’t quite reach, and of course, his wife is busy rubbing her hands all over my husband.

“I am good,” Enzo says after this goes on for far too long. “I have enough. Will come off in the water anyway.”