“Phoebe is going to take you to get open-toed shoes today.”

“Was that in the binder?” Phoebe asks.

It’s not really what she imagined for the day. She imagined getting a massage. She imagined lying by the pool.

“You both need shoes,” Lila says. “You can take the vintage car.”

Lila looks at Juice for some expression of excitement, but there is only disdain.

“The one we took yesterday?” Juice asks. “I hate that car.”

“It’s a beautiful car,” Lila says.

“It’s embarrassing,” Juice says. “People just look at you while you drive.”

“That’s the point,” Lila says.

“Why do you want people to just look at you all the time?”

Lila opens her mouth to respond, but Phoebe stands up as a way to finish the argument.

“Let’s do it,” Phoebe says. “Juice, I’ll meet you in the lobby at noon.”

“You should get some dresses while you’re out,” Lila says, and no one asks why Phoebe is the maid of honor and yet has brought no dresses for the week. They are three days into the wedding now, ready to accept whatever reality the bride dictates. “One for every night. Go down to Bellevue. That’s where they have the best stuff.”

More wedding people arrive, and the bride is bombarded. She shrieks as she stands up. She hugs them and then introduces each one to the bridal party. Her cousin, a skier who almost made it to the Olympics. Her uncle, who wears a full linen suit. And then her grandmother, who calls herself “Bootsie” and then introduces the man next to her as “my guy.” She is old, just on the cusp of ancient, and she looks around at the room like she’s never stayed in a hotel in her life.

“I don’t understand why you couldn’t have the wedding at home,” Bootsie says. “Like Jackie.”

“We talked about this, Grandmother,” Lila says, kissing her on the cheek. “This isn’t Jackie’s wedding. We do things differently now.”

“But the Breakers is very gaudy. A poor man’s imitation of a European castle,” Bootsie says.

Lila looks at My Guy. “Can you help Grandmother get settled in the St. Georges room?”

They watch Bootsie go, and Phoebe whispers, “Who is Jackie?”

“Jackie Kennedy.”

IN THE ROARING TWENTIES, Phoebe opens the maid of honor binder and feels like her old self, about to embark on a series of tasks. She finds herself wanting to make today perfect for Lila. She starts by calling the number for the Sex Woman.

“Hello?” a woman answers.

Phoebe was hoping she would answer by introducing herself the way many businesses do.

“Hi, are you the…” Phoebe begins. “I am calling to confirm your visit to Lila Rossi-Winthrop’s bachelorette party tonight at five p.m.?”

“Rossi-Winthrop?” the Sex Woman says. “Will you hold please?”

For a Sex Woman, she seems very formal. She types a lot of information into the system and makes no attempt to fill the silence with conversation.

“Okay, that’s right. Five p.m.,” she says. “And will there be a projector?”

“Do you require one?” Phoebe asks.

“Historically, yes,” the Sex Woman says.

AT THE FRONT desk, while Phoebe waits for Juice, she asks Pauline where she might find compostable dick-themed flatware in this town.

“Oh!” Pauline says, and if she thinks this is a weird question, she doesn’t show it. “Does that exist? I don’t know if that exists. But if it does, it would be at a place called Coastal Intimates down in the Navy district. I can get you a driver?”

“No, I’ll be taking the vintage car,” Phoebe says. “Oh, and we’ll need a projector at five p.m. sharp in the billiards room for the bachelorette party.”

“Of course, absolutely!” Pauline says, like this is the most sensible request in the world.

Phoebe turns around to see Juice waiting by the double doors. She looks out of place standing in front of the velvet drapes in her big black combat boots. Like a girl from the future, lost in time.

“Hey,” Phoebe says.

But Juice just waves. She has gone quiet again like she did on the drive to the wharf. Phoebe doesn’t know if this is because this is the first time they are alone without her family or if this is just something that happens to Juice in the bright hot sun of the afternoon.

“Your car is ready,” the man in burgundy says.

Phoebe drives fast, but not so fast that it would scare Juice. Juice seems to relax into the speed, reads something off her phone, and the silence is fine with Phoebe. A relief, really. Phoebe hates having to perform happiness in front of other people’s children. This is probably why Phoebe has been told many times that she is not particularly maternal, but she thinks what people mean by this is that she does not act like a mother on TV, who is often loud, always trying to hug someone, doesn’t really matter who.

But Phoebe is not a hugger. Her father was not a hugger. He gave a small pat on the back whenever he wanted to say “I love you.” He did not oohh and ahh over Phoebe, and so Phoebe did not oohh or ahh over other people’s children.

But this did not mean she didn’t enjoy kids. She just didn’t feel the need to try so hard with them, like her husband always did. She suspected kids didn’t really like it when adults tried too hard, mostly because Phoebe never liked that as a child. Then again, the first time her husband picked up Mia’s new baby, he swung her around like she was an airplane, and she seemed to really like it.

“Does she eat any real food yet?” he asked Mia.

It had been their last Thanksgiving together, three months before the affair started. Mia and Tom had come over with their new baby because Matt didn’t have a big family, either. The people at the university are my family, he always said. And that made sense for him. He was wedded to them for life.

“Today is going to be her first day of real food, actually,” Mia said.

“Wow,” Matt said. Phoebe’s husband looked genuinely thrilled by this, but Phoebe didn’t know how to look genuinely thrilled. She mostly just felt fat from her most recent IVF cycle. “She’s going to expect a Thanksgiving dinner every day from now on.”

“Right,” Mia said. “She’ll have the most complicated palate at preschool. Like, I’m sorry, but where is the turkey jus?”

They laughed, and even though the affair hadn’t started yet, Phoebe already felt outside of something they shared. They were different somehow—they were the ones making jokes over the turkey. They were the ones debating whether the Waldorf school would be good for the child, and Phoebe was the one just trying to hang on. Trying to smile. Phoebe was becoming like Tom. She looked to Tom in solidarity, but Tom was assessing the turkey.

“Are these the giblets?” Tom asked.

Phoebe felt like she was in a dream, watching Mia and her husband and the Waldorf Child continue on so merrily with Thanksgiving dinner. Tom asking why the turkey was flipped upside down, and Matt saying, “It’s the only way you can make it.”

Her husband was full of advice like that. He knew how to best do everything, and Tom seemed interested in being like this, too. Tom asked him a lot of questions while Mia had her breast out, and Phoebe didn’t remember if it was rude to look at the breast or rude not to look.

Phoebe tried to say something nice about the Waldorf Child. She imagined what some other woman would say. Another mother.