* * *

—

As they strolled home from the diner, going out of their way to walk along the Central Park side of Fifth Avenue, Amara draped Daniel’s arm over her shoulder. “If you want to quit your job and start your own business, I support you,” she said. “Even if it means we have to sell the apartment and move the family to a place where the cost of living is lower, like—I don’t know—Cleveland.”

He smiled. The spring evening air smelled of budding trees, of damp grass. “I support you too, Mari,” he said. “Whether you want to work out some new kind of financial arrangement for staying at home or consider going back to work.” At the mention of going back to work, a lot of confusing feelings she couldn’t quite identify—panic or excitement?—began swirling around inside of her. He saw them on her face. “Or become a rodeo clown,” he added.

“How did you know that rodeo clowning was my secret dream?” she asked.

“I know you,” he said, kissing her cheek. “And here’s our cross street. Time to head home and release the babysitter?”

It struck her that bringing a kid into a marriage was like getting a huge promotion, but with no raise and still having to do all your old work of being a good partner too. Despite the promise of fairy-tale weddings, marriage was work. But she’d gotten very lucky with her coworker.

“First,” she said, pointing to a secluded spot in the park, “do you want to sneak into those bushes over there and have a quickie?”

“Yes, please,” he said.

* * *

—

In the elevator, zooming back up to their apartment, Daniel picked leaves and other various park detritus out of Amara’s hair. “Oh,” she said, giddy. “I can’t wait for you to meet Claire!” Introducing two people who were both grade A excellent was one of life’s great joys.

“Wait,” Daniel said, starting to put two and two together. “Claire from playgroup is babysitting tonight?”

“Yeah,” she said. “She’s not a mom—she’s our musician. I have a cool young friend with whom I’m a bit obsessed. Is that weird?”

He laughed as the doors slid open onto their floor. “No weirder than anything else about you.”

“She’s a delight and you’re a delight, and we should all hang out and have fun together,” Amara said, pulling out her keys.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Daniel said as they swung the door open.

Claire was sitting on their couch, her knee jiggling up and down, staring straight ahead. “Claire! Beautiful, sanity-saving Claire,” Amara said, running to her side. “Meet Daniel!”

“Hi, Claire,” Daniel said, smiling and holding out his hand for a shake. “I’ve heard that you are a delight.”

“Oh,” Claire said as she stood, distracted. “What? No, I’m . . . Hi. Nice to meet you.”

“She’s a very talented singer and songwriter,” Amara said to Daniel, then turned back to Claire. “Thank you so much. We had a lovely time. Well, after a bit of a rough start. We had to switch restaurants. Daniel, you should tell her about—” Through her haze of happiness and wine buzz and post-sex endorphins, she noticed that Claire was avoiding her eyes. That wasn’t like her. “Oh, no,” she said. “Charlie was very difficult, wasn’t he?”

“Um,” Claire said. “He had a poop explosion, but after that, he was fine. I hope it’s okay, I rinsed off in your bathroom.”

“Oh, Lord,” Amara said. “Of course that’s fine. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“He’s really got a special talent for pooping,” Daniel said. “We’re not sure which side of the family it comes from.” He put his hand up as if to block his mouth from Amara and pointed to her while whispering her name. Claire gave a half laugh that got stuck in her throat.

“Do you want to stay and have a drink?” Amara asked. “Oh, let’s all have a drink together!”

“No,” Claire said. “I mean, I should let the two of you continue your date night.” Amara started to protest, but Claire waved a trembling hand through the air. “My stomach’s feeling weird anyway.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Amara said as Daniel reached for his wallet and pulled out three twenties. “Well, we’ll see you at Reagan’s birthday party on Sunday, right?”

“Yeah,” Claire said, gathering up all of her stuff.

Amara walked Claire to the door and stared after her as she disappeared into the elevator, an uneasy feeling starting to replace all her prior giddiness.

“She seemed . . . nice,” Daniel said, coming up behind her and putting a hand on her shoulder.

“I think Charlie broke her with his poo,” Amara said, shutting the door and turning the lock. “She’s different than that normally.” She shook her head. “Well, you’ll get to know each other at the birthday party. The birthday party will be great.”

Chapter 20

So this was how they did it all, Claire thought as she ran through Central Park in the dark, her body filled with too much unwanted nervous energy for her to stand and wait at a bus stop. With a little help from hard drugs. Beyond the aspect of potential child endangerment, Claire didn’t mind the speed itself, exactly. What really filled her with an unexpected anger was the fact that they were cheating. All the natural health that Whitney had espoused, all that “wisdom” Amara had fed her—don’t wait too long to get your shit together, that whole act—it was a lie. If you were wealthy enough, apparently you could just pop pills to lose weight and give you endless energy, and no one would mind. Quite the opposite, in fact. They’d beg for you to be in their coffee-table books so you could make all the normal women out there feel inferior. Someone like Claire would never be able to glow and awe like them, because there was no possible way to catch up.

God, their poor children. Claire thought of Whitney stroking her hair at Sycamore House while Claire poured out the story of her mother choosing appearances over what was best for her child, pretending to empathize while she was doing the exact same thing. The playgroup women probably all thought Claire was an idiot, laughing at her after she left Whitney’s apartment each time for the way that she had fallen for their act. (Because they had to know—there was no way you could delude yourself into thinking a pill of that strength was some all-natural vitamin.)

Dammit, she had really, really liked them. Especially Amara. What a head-spinning, soul-annihilating disappointment.

She slowed down and pulled out her phone, dialing Thea’s number. The phone rang and rang until a text from Thea popped up. Not a good time. Let’s talk later. Claire put her phone back in her pocket and jogged on.