“Are you listening to yourself?” Amara asked.
“Okay, let’s not—” Whitney started.
“Nobody here thinks this is horribly unfeminist and retrograde?” Amara asked, looking around. Meredith shook her head, and Vicki popped out a boob to breastfeed.
“Every marriage has to decide what’s best for it,” Gwen said.
“Okay! How about we do music now?” Whitney said.
Then, when music was over and Claire beelined toward Amara, who was jiggling Charlie in a corner as he twisted and grunted, Gwen intercepted her.
“Claire, I have an important question to ask you.” Gwen clasped her hands in front of her as if in prayer, her eyes wide with anticipation. Claire half expected her to get down on one knee. “I think it would be so good for the babies to have a fun, educational activity at Reagan’s birthday party. Will you come perform?”
“Oh!” Whitney said. “Say yes, Claire!”
“You can meet all the daddies, and we could pay you three hundred dollars,” Gwen added.
“Yeah, sure! I’m in,” Claire said.
Gwen clapped her hands. “Oh, good. Christopher will be so pleased,” she said, and then turned to Whitney with some thoughts about the planning of it all.
Finally, though, Claire reached Amara. “Hey, I’m ready,” she said in a low voice, her hands shaking a little bit at her sides. “To sing you something I wrote.”
Amara glanced up, Charlie wriggling in her arms. “What?” she asked. Her voice was tight with frustration.
“Like you said last time we hung out? If you’re free after playgroup today, I could come over again.”
“I’m not,” Amara said, brusque. “I have to take Charlie to get his shots, and it’s like he already knows it.” She looked at her child. “You’re a real picnic—you know that?” He twisted and clamped his mouth down on her shoulder. “Hey! No biting.”
“Got it,” Claire said.
“Oh, my God,” Whitney said, looking down at her phone. “Oh, my God!”
“What? Is everything okay?” Gwen asked, worry etching itself on her face.
“Listen to this,” Whitney said, and began to read an e-mail aloud. “‘Hey, Whitney! Moms of Insta here. We wanted to reach out because we’re in the process of making a gorgeous coffee-table book, due to be published this fall. We’re giving some of our favorite InstaMoms a two-page spread each, a combination of some of their own photos and a professional photo shoot we do. We love your pics. Your family is so cute, and your playgroup is great too. We love that you have a dedicated professional musician—so good for the babies’ development! Want to be part of the book?’”
Ellie and Meredith shrieked and grabbed Whitney’s hands, and they all danced around, their energy suddenly back to normal levels. “Congratulations, Whitney,” Gwen said, while Vicki gave a faraway smile.
“Guys, if I do it, you’re all doing it too,” Whitney said. “They said they loved the playgroup. I’m asking them if you can all be part of the photo shoot.”
“Whitney, you are my hero,” Ellie said.
“You don’t have to do that,” Amara said. “Really.”
“Too bad, I want to. And they mentioned the music!” Whitney said, turning her blinding smile on Claire. “So, musician, we’re bringing you along too!”
In the face of Whitney’s generosity, her sparkling eyes, and her certainty that Claire would love to get all dolled up and documented for posterity as someone whose greatest talent involved singing “Wheels on the Bus,” Claire hesitated. If Vagabond, or anyone who knew her story, saw her like that, they’d probably never stop smirking. But why in the world would anyone from her past buy a coffee-table book about Instagram moms? She swallowed, catching Amara’s eye briefly. “Thanks, Whitney,” she said. “That’s really nice of you.”
She packed up efficiently as Ellie, Meredith, and Whitney went off into a reverie, imagining what the shoot would be like, what kinds of food catering would bring, and, Ellie wondered, if they’d be able to get hair extensions and false eyelashes. As Claire turned to go, Amara came up behind her.
“Hey, wait,” Amara said. “Are you free tomorrow night? I know where you can sing for me.”
Chapter 13
The next night, Amara pulled on a leather jacket she hadn’t worn since the early days of her pregnancy, and looked at herself in the mirror. Not bad. You wouldn’t necessarily know, from seeing her on the street, that she’d popped a baby out of her vagina. No mom jeans and minivans for her. (But even if she kept wearing leather jackets and exuding a certain intimidating cool, she knew that someday, Charlie would be mortified by her mere existence. Or rather, she hoped he would be, even as she dreaded it, because that would mean that he was normal.) She paused, then grabbed a tube of bright red lipstick and carefully applied it. Not bad at all.
When she came out into the living room, Daniel did a double take. “Wait. Who are you going out with? Do I need to be jealous?” he asked.
“Don’t be jealous. I’m just going to an orgy,” she said, and he smiled, cracking open a beer and sitting down on the floor next to Charlie. “No, I told you, with Claire from playgroup.”
“Is she the brownstone woman, the coffee shop savior, or a different one?” he asked, lifting Charlie to standing, his hands on his waist, and then taking his hands away. Charlie remained standing for a second as Daniel and Amara watched, their breath in their throats, and then he plopped back down to the floor, letting out a grunt.
“A different one,” Amara said. “Oh, Lord, I totally forgot to tell you. Speaking of playgroup, listen to this nonsense. Ellie’s husband gives her a wife bonus. That’s probably the most patriarchal bullshit that a bull ever shat, right?”
“A wife bonus?” Daniel asked. “Like she’s his employee?” Amara nodded. “Woof. Not to get all high-horsey, but I’m glad we don’t have a marriage where I give you money based on how well you’ve met my needs, or whatever it is.”
“That’s probably the most romantic thing you’ve ever said,” Amara said. “I’d kiss you if I hadn’t just put on lipstick.” She blew him a kiss instead, and he pretended to catch it in the air. “What sort of adventures are you two going to get up to?”
“We’re going to drink beer and do some father-son bonding over sports.” Daniel turned on the television, where a basketball game was in progress. “You gonna play this someday, little dude? I bet you’ll be able to jump higher than all those other guys.”