“You have to come, Claire,” Meredith said. “They’ve got amazing yoga classes, food, these gorgeous hiking trails!”

“The only issue is that they don’t allow alcohol,” Ellie said. “But it’s only, like, one night.”

“It would be far more fun than having our stuffy old husbands along,” Amara said.

“Um, okay!” Claire said, throwing her hands up in the air. “Thanks!”

Whitney cheered, and poured her more champagne.

“One of us,” Ellie chanted. “We’ll have you taking TrueMommy and doing cleanses in no time.”

A strangled noise escaped from Gwen, and they all looked over right as her face crumpled into sobs. The others exchanged glances, confused, and then Whitney knelt down beside her.

“What is it, Gwen?” she asked, gingerly, as if Gwen were a wounded animal.

“It’s nothing,” Gwen said, even as her shoulders shook.

“Was it because I called our husbands stuffy and old?” Amara asked. “I didn’t mean your husband, specifically.”

Gwen’s pale face had gone splotchy. She bit her lip, hesitating. “I think Christopher’s having an affair,” she said.

Chapter 15

Whitney’s blood got hot, and bile rose in her throat. She was so full of disgust at herself that there was no room for anything else inside her body—no heart, certainly, and no brain either.

“Wait. What?” Meredith asked.

“Oh, Gwen,” Amara said, sinking down on the other side of her and grabbing her hand. “Fuck him.”

“Please, don’t say that word around the babies,” Gwen said. “But thank you.”

“What . . . what makes you think that?” Whitney asked.

Gwen sighed, a rattling sound that traveled the length of her body. “He smells different sometimes,” she said. “Too clean. Normally I can smell the office on him. The coffee he’s had during the day, all of that. But a few times over the past couple weeks, it’s as if he’s taken a shower before coming home.”

Whitney and Christopher had met three times now, always for an hour during the workday, when Christopher would tell his bosses he was taking a long business lunch and Whitney would tell her babysitter she was getting a spa treatment. The last time, they hadn’t even made it to the bed. The moment the door shut behind her, he’d turned her around right up against it, pushing up her skirt and pulling down her underwear and fucking her so hard from behind that she imagined all the women pushing their housekeeping carts down the hallway could see the door rattling. It was the good kind of being used, as if he’d recognized the trash inside her and wanted it anyway.

And despite the fact that Christopher could be rough—that he twisted her hair around his fist and pulled it until her eyes watered—a miracle had occurred. For the first time since Whitney had given birth, sex felt good again. The stinging pain she experienced with Grant inside of her was gone.

“Have you checked his texts?” Ellie asked. “That’s how my sister found out that her fiancé was cheating, and thank God, she got out of that relationship.”

“Yes,” Meredith said, nodding. “Check his texts.”

“What? Don’t check his texts,” Amara said. “If he’s not cheating on you, that’s a horrible invasion of privacy. And if smell is what you’re going on, that could be caused by a lot of different things.”

“Maybe he’s just started a new workout schedule,” Whitney said. “Maybe he’s showering at the gym?”

“Yeah, it could be that,” Amara said. “I wouldn’t necessarily jump to worst-case scenario. But if it is the worst-case scenario, let us know if you need us to kill him.”

“You’re probably right,” Gwen said. “I’m probably being crazy.” She waved her hand through the air as if to clear away the expressions on their faces, the sympathy, but also the barely masked morbid curiosity. “Let’s talk about something else.” Gwen’s eyes lit on Claire, who had folded up into herself like she was trying to disappear, and Gwen startled. “Oh, Claire! I’m sorry. It’s not your job to listen to this stuff.”

Each time their hour had been up, Christopher would retie his tie while Whitney sat on the bed, watching him. He’d leave first, and she’d wait five minutes. The moment the door closed behind him, leaving her alone in a room that smelled like their sweat, she’d promise herself that she’d never do that again. And then each time he sent her a new message, her heart started clattering against the walls of her chest and she could barely breathe until she’d answered him back.

But now she looked at Gwen’s milky, tearstained face and promised herself anew. She meant it this time. Not again.

* * *

—

Her resolve held all through the weekend. She was going to be the world’s best wife and mother. She wheeled Hope to Whole Foods on Friday afternoon and bought the most expensive cut of organic, grass-fed steak they had, then cooked it so that it still oozed blood when Grant cut into it on his dinner plate. He looked up at her in appreciation as the red pooled on his plate—they’d long had an affectionate argument going about how rare a steak should be. She smiled at him as she struggled to swallow the meat, cold and raw against her tongue.

On Saturday, she coaxed Grant into a family outing to the Museum of Natural History. They walked like experts through the crowds of tourists. Grant was being especially charming that day, making little jokes about the ancient-animals tableaux, playing with Hope. Occasionally, Whitney noticed harried Midwestern moms, with their overstuffed tote bags, turn to look at the three of them in envy or admiration. She caught Grant’s hand in hers and kissed it and graciously gave directions to a family who couldn’t figure out how to find the big blue whale. Hope stared at the dinosaurs, and Whitney read her the descriptions from the museum labels. A baby’s brain could soak up knowledge like water into a sponge. Maybe, years from now, Hope would be studying for a history test on this topic, and the facts would come easily to her, and she would feel very deeply how smart she was despite growing up in a world that gave girls so many opportunities to feel less than.

That night, after Grant and Hope—both cranky from the outing—had fallen asleep, Whitney posted a picture of the three of them on her Instagram. Then she sat and watched as the comments began to roll in. She’d started receiving the occasional negative comment as her following had grown: “out-of-touch rich bitch,” or “too much time on ur hands lol, go back to work,” or, worst of all, ones like “Ur baby’s gonna hate u when she’s old enough to see u whored out her childhood online.” From trolls, she told herself, or people who were jealous and miserable and needed to take it out on her. She always deleted them immediately, sending the judgments into the ether with a swipe of her finger.