“God, it’s like I recognize you,” she said. “I wonder if we ever passed each other in New York when we were younger. If we were ever in the same restaurant or if we walked by each other on the street.”

“Maybe we sat on opposite ends of the same subway car,” he said. “Or you got out of one side of a taxi while I got in the other.”

Her life could have been so different if only they had seen each other then, if she’d gotten out of the taxi on his side and held the door for him, and he’d decided not to go to his destination after all, but just to walk with her instead, when they were younger, before they’d married the wrong people. Her throat started to tingle with the onset of tears, and she swallowed them away and kissed him.

The fact that sex with Christopher didn’t hurt wasn’t the only miracle. The even greater miracle—greater and terrifying and so, so inconvenient—was that she was falling in love.

Chapter 16

A bag of fresh fruit—that was the first thing Claire noticed when she climbed into the twelve-passenger van that Sycamore House had sent to shuttle the women upstate. “Help yourselves,” said the driver after he finished putting their luggage in the trunk, carefully laying Claire’s black backpack atop a pile of designer suitcases. Claire reached her hand into the paper bag and pulled out a pear, ripe and unblemished.

As they drove up into the Hudson Valley, Whitney made conversation with the driver from the passenger seat. Ellie and Meredith prattled away to each other in the back while, next to them, Gwen listened to an audiobook of a Jhumpa Lahiri novel. Vicki stared longingly out the window as the bustle of the city faded into treetops, as if trying to commune with her baby despite the miles between them. Claire’s leg jostled against Amara’s, and they smiled at each other.

The past week, Claire had gone over to Amara’s apartment after both playgroup sessions, staying and talking until the sky outside started to darken. They didn’t mention their extra time together to the rest of the moms, so it had an exciting, illicit frisson, even though all they were doing was playing with Charlie and chopping vegetables for dinner. Amara had regaled Claire with tales of her late-night days, about which celebrities were secretly total pricks and which ones had been far too insistent that she do coke with them. Claire had made Amara laugh with stories of her various dating misadventures. But also, Claire had watched Amara tear up with relief as Charlie pulled himself to standing all over the living room. And Amara had wordlessly poured Claire a large glass of wine when Claire had come back in from the hallway, where she’d gone to endure one of her mother’s infrequent passive-aggressive phone check-ins. After ten minutes of questions about why Claire needed to stay in New York if she wasn’t in “that band” anymore, a glass of wine and a silent look of understanding from Amara had been exactly what Claire had needed.

Now, as they sat next to each other in the van, Amara rooted around in her handbag. “Hangman?” she asked, pulling out a pencil and a pad of paper.

“Yes, please,” Claire said.

An hour and a half later, the driver stopped at a guard booth. “Whitney Morgan, party of 7,” he said to the man inside, who checked a list and then waved them through, down a driveway lined with sycamore trees (very on brand, Claire thought). Ahead of them, a mansion came into view—regal, made of gray stone, like something out of The Great Gatsby, except for the modernized wings flanking either side of it. In spite of herself, a giddy anticipation overtook Claire, and she grinned at Amara. How weird and wonderful, to be there, with those women. It was like she’d pulled off a long con.

They walked into the wood-paneled lobby to check in. The woman behind the desk, an efficient ball of sunshine around Claire’s age, handed them all reusable water bottles emblazoned with the Sycamore House logo. “Welcome,” she said. “Now, I’ve got a room key for Victoria Elmsworth, who upgraded to the silent-retreat option?” The rest of the moms looked at one another, confused, as Vicki glided forward to collect a room key, waved goodbye, and disappeared off down a corridor.

“Well,” Amara said, “I guess that’s the last we’ll see of Vicki this weekend.”

“The rest of you will be two to a room, so pick your partner, drop off your stuff, and then you can get started on activities! We’ve got a great Vinyasa class in half an hour.”

Ellie charged forward, Meredith in tow, and grabbed their room key. Amara and Claire began to turn to each other right as Gwen reached for Whitney. But though Whitney must have seen Gwen’s overture, she turned to Claire as if oblivious, clapping her hands together with a bright smile. “Oh, room with me, Claire,” she said. “I’ve been dying for us to get to know each other better!”

“Uh, sure,” Claire said. Well, this was an unexpected turn. Now she knew what it felt like to be the kid who got picked first for teams in gym class. She shot an apologetic look at Amara, then followed Whitney down the hall into a room with two double beds, each covered in a fluffy white comforter. A large window ran along one wall, looking out onto the forest.

“Let’s change for Vinyasa,” Whitney said, unself-consciously pulling off her blouse and swapping it for a formfitting tank top made of some fancy athletic material that wicked away perspiration and probably cured cancer too. Claire dug a pair of sweatpants from Old Navy out of her backpack. Whitney glanced at them, then hesitated. “Would you like to borrow a pair of yoga pants?” she asked. “I brought a few.”

“Thanks, but there’s no way I wear the same size as you,” Claire said. Whitney’s legs were those of a ballerina. Claire’s legs would have been more at home playing on the US Women’s Soccer Team.

“Oh, please, that’s the beauty of yoga pants,” Whitney said, tossing over a pair of sleek Athleta leggings.

Claire slid and wiggled her way into the pants, which vacuum-sealed her in. Goddammit, they really were good quality. And they had pockets? Already, she could tell how deflating it would be, the moment that she walked back into her own apartment after this charmed weekend.

“We’re practically The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants right now.” Whitney beamed.

Turned out that the magic of the yoga pants extended only so far. They made Claire’s ass look amazing (“Where have you been hiding that?” Amara asked when Claire walked into the yoga room), but they did not automatically make her into a yogi. As the mothers contorted themselves into a series of unfamiliar poses, bending and breathing deep, Claire got sweatier and sweatier, her hands slipping around on her mat. “Find your own truth in your practice today,” the instructor said, reaching out a hand to steady Claire as she wobbled. “For some of you, that means extending your stretch out further. For others, that may mean resting in child’s pose.” Claire snuck a glance at a woman on a nearby mat sinking back onto her haunches with a sigh, and copied her.