“Well, that ends on this trip,” Aimee says. She picks up her pants and shakes them out in the wind.
“I’ll alert the presses,” I say.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll do that,” she says with a smile.
I strain to match her grin and swallow the surge of jealousy that’s jumped from my stomach to my throat. We make our way up the lawn back to the house.
The first time I had a thought like the one I had on the dock was three months ago. It was of me and Aimee touching. Not a friendly intimate gesture like an affirming pat on the leg or our shoulders brushing from standing too close. I pictured her sucking my fingers while we made margaritas. A flash that came and went while I squeezed lime into our salt-rimmed glasses. I was surprised, but pleasantly so. Who doesn’t want to be touched? And the truth was Joe had been doing a lot less of that lately. A split-second thought was hardly cheating. Besides, I’d never had any conscious interest in women, nothing I’d ever felt compelled to act on, so I didn’t view the thought as something that threatened to upend my whole life. But they haven’t stopped coming.
If I had friends to confide in other than Aimee, they’d tell me this was an early midlife crisis. And this wasn’t about my professional integrity, or my firm belief in monogamy. But I know it isn’t about any of those things. This nascent obsession is about Aimee. The way she’s wormed herself into my life, my heart, my fantasies until I start to believe I’d rather die than hold myself back from her for another day.
AIMEE
Impulsive people have no room in their minds for regret. Consequences are acknowledged and then set aside like the shirt I wore when jumping into that murky water.
Who cares that my hair stinks to high hell, like a mechanic’s garage in a swamp? I’ve definitely got a mark from that repulsive eel, but Google tells me its bite is no more harmful than a jellyfish sting. I’ll shower, put some ointment on my leg, and open a bottle of rosé. It will be like it never happened. Except that my body will thrum with the exhilaration of following my impulse. It feels amazing to give in to pure desire.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Farah says as we walk across the lawn to the back entrance. She opens the door and playfully shoves me inside the house. I stumble over the threshold and remember it’s not either of ours. I freeze.
“What?” she asks.
“Do you hear that?” I whisper.
She shakes her head, listening obediently.
“That’s right,” I say. “It’s quiet here. No crying, no whining, no petty fighting.”
Farah huffs. “You scared me.”
I throw my arms around her and squeeze until Farah chuckles. We hug with the joy of two mothers reconnecting with their old selves. Our child-free selves.
Like Margot, Eden is also child free, except her status is by choice, while Adam says Margot is struggling to accept that she might not be able to conceive. She’s my age—not too old to get pregnant by a decade—but they’ve been trying for years. Farah says it’s different when trying for the first time. In fact, she’s warned me that my body is already too familiar with how to get pregnant, and since I haven’t been on birth control in years, there could easily be a fourth if Adam and I are not careful. If we’re not careful—and we resume having sex. That’s an important requirement.
I do want to have a fourth child. A little boy would be good for sponsorship, but it’s not even about that. Motherhood is a wealth of mystery. How is Clara Adam’s physical doppelgänger, but acts exactly like me? How can she wear dresses and play in the mud, but our second daughter, Dylan, won’t act fancy or be messy? And Baby Go is beginning to show herself as a whole other type, different from the first two. What would a fourth be like? But when I’ve brought up the idea to Adam, he’s dismissed me, saying I have my hands full already. Each rejection is a small knife in my chest.
At the top of the stairs, Farah and I make a plan to coordinate outfits for dinner before retreating to our rooms. I find my bags have arrived in the Aries Suite, though I never saw a bellhop or house assistant bring them up. There’s a thick white card tented on my nightstand next to a single white rose. I open it.
Welcome, Cancer! This astrological sign is rarely noted for its duality. We’re familiar with the hard outer shell of the crab and the sweet tender meat inside, but they are rarely acknowledged together. Cancer is one of the most spiteful signs, while at the same time one of the most nurturing. You’re not for everyone, but the people who get you are yours for life.
You’re walking toward a major realization this weekend, but it’s your style to crab-walk sideways into change. Don’t worry—you’ll end up exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if it takes a little longer to get there.
I turn the card over in my hand. The horoscope is just detailed enough to feel like it was written for me at this exact moment in time without sounding invasive. I slip the card into the novel on my nightstand and take a shower.
In the gorgeous white-tiled bathroom, I appreciate the craftsmanship of this house. One of my Insta friends is a home renovator with six adorable kids, and I watch enough of her reels to know that Stars Harbor hasn’t been torn down and renovated, but impeccably restored. Small details, like the delicate baseboards and the gold-legged pedestal sink, indicate the original design. Very thoughtful. Very expensive for that labor and know-how.
In the shower, I slough off the residue from that impromptu jump in the water. Farah was right that it was a bad idea, but I can’t let being wrong stop me from being happy. From being me.
The hot water scalds my skin the way I like it. I’m lathering the coconut-scented soap under my arms when I hear a faint cry. A baby’s cry. I wipe the steam from the glass door.
It’s the unmistakable sound of an infant who doesn’t understand that their needs are moments away from being fulfilled. The infant who doesn’t comprehend that Mommy needs a goddamn minute to wipe, or to put a modesty shield over her engorged breasts. I shut off the water. Silence. I stand there until I begin to shiver, but the crying doesn’t resume. I turn the water on to rinse off the rest of the soap.
I don’t bother trying to comfort myself by rationalizing that it was the squeal of the hot-water pipes, or that the sound carried from a neighbor. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard phantom crying. Always in the shower. It must have something to do with the fact that it’s the one place where I get close to actually relaxing. My sleep barely qualifies; it creeps in lightly or else washes over me involuntarily. I can’t remember a single dream I’ve had since Clara was born eight years ago.
I turn off the water for a second time and step onto the thick bath mat. The crying is gone, but I hear the scratch of a zipper in our room. I open the door and see that Adam is rifling through his suitcase.
“You scared the crap out of me,” I say. “Weren’t you writing?”
“I need a break, okay?” Adam sighs.
“Of course you deserve a break, honey.”
Adam scoots back on the bed fully clothed and props a pillow behind his head. He thumbs in his passcode, and the doomscrolling begins.
“Hey,” I say.
Adam doesn’t look up. Not a glance. We haven’t had sex since the baby was born. To say that’s the longest we’ve ever gone without is an understatement. After the first two babies were born, we were intimate in a matter of weeks. Six after Clara. Four after Dylan. Once I know the rules, I like to break them.
A year without having sex with my husband. Sometimes it doesn’t sound like my life. Hearing myself think it, I want to open my mouth in shock, as if a girlfriend has just revealed her darkest secret. “Pre-motherhood me” would slap “mom me” across the face and tell me to get my shit together.
This means I understand why he doesn’t look up. He stopped searching for clues of seduction or opportunity long ago.
“Hey,” I repeat. I tickle his leg that hangs crookedly off the side of the bed.
“Yeah,” he says, his thumb moving slowly up the side of his phone. “What’s up?”
