“Thank you,” Claire said. She kind of wanted to cry, so she laughed instead. “Ugh, you’re so good at this mothering thing!”
Whitney laughed too. “I try,” she said.
* * *
—
The next morning, they packed up their luggage with a new comfort between the two of them, exchanging jokes about how Whitney had drooled on her pillow, how Claire had slept curled into the tiniest ball. Then, when Whitney went to the bathroom, Claire grabbed all the fancy tea bags their hotel room had been stocked with and shoved them into her backpack. She had to go back to reality, but she could take a little bit of this weekend with her.
Chapter 17
Amara wheeled her suitcase into the Sycamore House lobby behind Gwen. When they’d gotten back to their room last night, Amara had steeled herself for an emotional heart-to-heart about Christopher, but Gwen had simply kept listening to her audiobook, teary-eyed, and then gone to bed at nine P.M. Well, it would be nice to get a good night of sleep for once, Amara had thought, switching off her own light. Then she’d lain awake for an hour, thinking about that stupid intentions workshop they’d done and how she’d lied. When that crunchy manifestation leader had made them close their eyes and visualize their goals, she hadn’t seen herself staying sane. She’d seen herself getting her financial house in order.
Now, as the other women filed into the lobby, Vicki floating in from God knows where, Gwen pulled out her Sycamore House booklet. “I think we have time to squeeze in one more activity before we head back to the city,” she said.
Claire and Whitney walked into the room, laughing. “Like a cute little tennis ball,” Whitney was saying. Amara stared at the two of them chumming it up and gritted her teeth. Oh, Lord, was she jealous? She made her way to Claire as Ellie and Gwen began to debate an abs workout versus an acupuncture workshop.
“I need a break from all this healthy shit,” she whispered. “Take a walk with me?”
“Yes, please,” Claire said, and they snuck out the side door, down some stone steps, and into the trees.
“How was your Whitney time?” Amara asked.
“It was really nice, actually,” Claire said.
Amara put her hands on her hips. “Don’t let her steal you away from me!”
“I’ll try, but it’s not easy, being so popular,” Claire said, fluffing her hair jokingly.
They traversed the property, passing the budding flowers that the nature specialist had told them all about the day before, the dew on the grass soaking their sneakers. Everything was so quiet here—no jackhammers, no honking taxis, no wailing babies. Sort of eerie, actually.
“All right, so,” Amara said. Her voice came out oddly formal, and she cleared her throat. “Hypothetically speaking, do you think there’s ever a way to do a wife-bonus situation that isn’t horribly unfeminist and regressive?”
Claire glanced at her sideways. “Hypothetically speaking,” she said, her words coming out slow and carefully chosen, “that’s a tough one. Is the hypothetical husband putting all the money he earns into a shared bank account that the hypothetical wife can access anytime?”
“Cutting the hypothetical crap, Daniel puts the vast majority of what he earns into a shared bank account, and then a tiny percentage into his own private account, just like what I was doing when I was working. But then I stopped working without fully consulting him and ever since then the financial situation has been all kinds of messed up. And there are times when a lady wants to make a purchase without having to justify it in the joint account, you know?”
“Mm,” Claire said. “Like all your porn.”
“Exactly.”
“Why don’t you just talk to him about all this?” Claire asked, as they walked past a burbling creek. “He seems like a good, understanding guy, from all you’ve told me.”
Amara sighed. “I know. He is. But all these little financial resentments have built up since I quit my job, and he’s always so drained by the time he gets home every night and we get Charlie to bed that he’s too exhausted to fuck me, let alone have a serious, thorny, fiscal conversation.” She paused. “That’s the other problem here. My vagina is growing cobwebs.”
“So you guys should have a date night,” Claire said.
Amara grimaced. “I’m reluctant to inflict Charlie on unsuspecting babysitters who have no idea what they’re getting into.” The last time Amara and Daniel had hired someone was for Gwen’s Christmas party. When they’d gotten home, the girl had greeted them like she’d been locked in an underground bunker for decades and they’d finally come to set her free.
“I’m not unsuspecting,” Claire said as they turned onto the winding driveway, where the Sycamore House van waited to carry them back to their real lives. “I could babysit.”
Chapter 18
So at six thirty-two P.M. on the following Friday night, Claire knocked on Amara’s apartment door. Amara answered looking frazzled but also stunning, in a sleeveless gold blouse and skintight leather pants, as wails emanated from a distant corner of the apartment.
“Charlie’s being an asshole,” Amara said. “I am so sorry.” Sure enough, when Amara led Claire through the living room and into the small nursery, Charlie was standing up in his crib, holding the slats, his tearstained face so angry, he resembled a miniature Hulk. “I wanted to get him to bed by the time you got here, but, well . . .” She held up her hands in a defeated gesture.
“Hey, bud,” Claire said, taking a tentative step toward him. Man, this kid had liquids coming out of him everywhere—eyes, nose, mouth, probably the parts she couldn’t see too. Had a hapless babysitter ever drowned in baby fluids before, or would she be the first?
“You are a goddess for doing this,” Amara said. “Hopefully he’ll wear himself out in a few minutes, and then you can spend the rest of the night watching TV. And seriously, help yourself to whatever. We’ve got food, drinks, very soft blankets on the couch. Just don’t get too smashed, I suppose. You’ve changed a diaper before, right?”
“Yeah, totally,” Claire lied.
Amara nodded in relief, then looked at the dinosaur-themed clock on Charlie’s wall. “Ah, shit. Daniel’s probably almost at the restaurant.” She peered at Claire. “Erm, will you be all right?”
“What, why?” Claire asked, trying to relax her face.
“You know, I can absolutely tell Daniel to just come home.” Amara bit her lip. “Yeah, I’ll tell him to come home. I don’t even know that I’m up for a big-deal dinner tonight. It’s probably more trouble than it’s worth.”