Claire pulled some cash out of her wallet, but Amara waved it away and walked to the bar. The list of drinks was far longer than she’d expected, so she gave the bartender her Visa debit card, the one that went to her own private checking account. When she and Daniel had gotten married, they’d merged almost all of their finances. But she’d kept this account, because it was the smart thing to do. Always have a little money of your own, her parents had told her. You never know what life will hand you.

Someone jostled her as she waited for the bartender to come back with her receipt. “Watch it, jackass!” she said, a pang rising up in her at how long it had been since she’d had the pleasure of yelling at a jerk at a bar. That was one of the strangest things about motherhood. You could love your baby to pieces, be thankful every day for his ten tiny toes and his piercing wail and his all-consuming existence, and yet still mourn the life you’d had before. And somehow it wasn’t cool to say that, to treat the birth of a baby as the death of something else. You had to be all joy, all gratitude. But she missed Sundays alone in her apartment, listening to music. She missed cherishing a cup of coffee, sipping it slowly all the way down to its dregs. She missed going out like this with a friend, letting the night take her where it wanted. All this had disappeared, and she’d never gotten the chance to properly grieve.

The bartender reappeared, a frown on his face, holding her card in the air. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but it’s not working. I think it might be maxed out?”

Fuck. Fuck. It was the stupid TrueMommy. She had used this card sparingly in the past, when she felt a little embarrassed about, for example, how much she had spent on the leather jacket she was currently wearing. She always put a bit of her salary into the account too, so it was fine. But now that she was unemployed, more and more purchases made her a little embarrassed, and shelling out a thousand dollars a month for specialty vitamins hadn’t helped the matter at all. Lord, she was an idiot.

Okay, she’d just have to stop taking the TrueMommy supplements while she figured something out. No big deal. Except so many days she barely felt like she was holding herself together as it was. And the vitamins, crazy as it sounded, did make her feel healthier, more energetic, more able to deal with Charlie’s moods than before, when she’d been constantly discombobulated. She’d been sucked in by those stupid wellness claims on the label. She’d bought in hook, line, and sinker, and now she couldn’t give them up.

So she’d just tell Daniel that they were important to her and ask if they could pay for them out of their joint account. And then her lovely, kind, ever-so-slightly uptight and morally superior husband would hear the price tag and think she was insane. “Are you kidding me?” he’d say. “Mari, you’re getting taken for a ride!” With Daniel, everyone was getting taken for a ride—his parents when the guys who came to mow their lawn up-charged them, people who shopped at stores where yoga pants cost more than fifty dollars, and sometimes when his latent socialist streak came out, everyone in a capitalist society. She hated when he turned “You’re getting taken for a ride” on her, as if he always had all the answers.

Fuck fuck, indeed. She handed the bartender the card linked to their joint account instead. “This one should work,” she said as another option for what to do about her current financial mess floated into her head. All that option would require was a complete and utter refutation of her principles. “And actually, can I get another shot of whiskey?”

She tossed it back quickly, then tried to shake herself out of the funk. Her eyes lit on Claire moving through the bar toward her, gloriously unencumbered. Free. Apparently, Amara wasn’t the only one who found Claire glorious as she moved. The bearded man Claire had pointed to before approached them, friend in tow. “We’re taking bets,” Beardo said. “I think you were pointing at me because you think I’m a movie star in disguise.”

“And I think it’s because you were trying to find the doofiest guy in the bar,” Glasses said.

“You’re both wrong,” Claire said.

“We’re witches, and we were looking for our next human sacrifice,” Amara said.

“Don’t worry,” Claire said. “We decided to go with someone else instead.”

“You’re not leaving, are you?” said Glasses. “Stay for one more, on us.”

Amara looked at Claire, who raised an eyebrow. “Oh, all right,” Amara said.

The four of them flirted about nothing, the kind of conversation that seemed witty at the time, but wouldn’t be memorable in the morning. At some point, the person manning the playlist at the bar switched over to “Shout,” and they all began to dance, throwing their arms up in the air, and bending down to the ground. Next came Whitney Houston, “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.”

Glasses took Amara’s hand and twirled her when the chorus started, catching her around the waist. “You’re really beautiful,” he yelled in her ear.

In her twenties, she would’ve grabbed him and kissed him. They would’ve made out right there in the mass of other bodies, maybe snuck into the bathroom and done more.

But now she disentangled herself. She was playing at living her old life, but she could only glide on its surface for so long. This man’s handsome young face was no match for Daniel’s, with his wrinkles and his exasperation, even though Amara was having all sorts of feelings about Daniel right now. “Thanks,” she said. “I’m going home to my husband.”

Claire and the bearded man were pressed up against each other, throwing their heads back and singing. Amara tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, you walking pheromone, I’m heading home. You should stay, though.”

“What?” Claire said, pulling away from her dance partner. “No. I came with you. I’ll leave with you.”

“Oh, come on. Go enjoy yourself. Make that hypothetical into a reality. I’m probably just going home to bed anyway. I’m old.”

“Stop that. Just give me a second,” Claire said. Claire whispered something to the bearded man and bit down on his earlobe so quickly, Amara thought maybe she’d imagined it. Then she turned and grabbed her jacket. “Okay, let’s go.”

* * *

—

The sounds of the bar followed them out into the cold spring air. Down the block, they came upon a fresh wall of posters announcing Vagabond’s new tour, with the two lead singers staring soulfully into each other’s eyes.

“Ugh,” Claire said. “It’s everywhere.”

Amara knew exactly how Claire felt. Even now, every time she saw an ad for Staying Up Late with Nick Tannenbaum, she wanted to punch something, hard. A thought struck her, and she rummaged around in her purse, among the receipts and the mints and her organizer. She was pretty sure she had exactly what she needed somewhere in the muck of her bag.