Vicki shook her head and shrugged her shoulders in an apologetic manner, then began to turn away. The woman unwrapped a scarf from her neck. “Here, you’re welcome to borrow this,” she said, her voice dripping with graciousness. Vicki languidly stretched out her hand for the scarf. As the woman passed it over, Vicki smiled as if in thanks. Then she slid open the window and dropped the scarf onto the sidewalk outside. The woman let out an indignant squeak and rushed away to retrieve it.

Vicki settled back, running her hand over her son’s curly hair, her calm expression slipping for a moment as two angry red spots rose on her cheeks. She noticed Claire staring at her and mouthed a hello, and Claire began to mouth one back as Vicki’s son resumed his feeding. Then Claire’s stomach dropped. Fuck, could speed get into breast milk?

Unable to think about that horrible possibility for a moment longer, she looked away and into the laughing, drinking, glass-clinking crowd, to where Amara stood by the bar with Daniel. Amara lit up in recognition and started waving her over, but Claire pretended not to notice and ducked into the kitchen instead.

It was airy and full of light, thanks to a large window that looked onto the house’s tidy backyard. A few guests milled about, getting glasses of water or simply seeking an escape from the rest of the party. She could have used a glass of water herself. Her mouth was as dry from nerves and dread as it had been when Vagabond sat her down for the talk. She headed for the sink. Over at the kitchen island, a man with curling golden hair was sticking candles into a multilayered cake, puffy with frosting, decorated with a ring of strawberries at the base. A group of Rosie’s friends ran through, and he gave them all high fives, then teased them about how he was going to eat the entire cake himself.

“No!” they shouted, giggling.

“It’s true,” he said. “I’ve already eaten five cakes today, but I need more!”

So this was Christopher, she thought, eyeing him with disdain. The breaker of hearts and vows, the suspected ripper of strange women’s panties. He was even sexier in person than she’d expected.

“You must be Claire,” he said when he spied her, and held out his hand for a shake. “Gwen’s been singing your praises for weeks now. We’re all really looking forward to the music. I’ve been warned not to sing along, because my voice makes dead musicians roll over in their graves, but I’ll do all the dancing you need.” Ugh, and he was charming too, with a strong handshake. He held on to her fingers just a second too long. Yup, he was totally cheating on Gwen. He reminded her of Marcus from Vagabond, actually—that same kind of golden-boy gleam that came from a high success rate of getting women into bed.

“Claire! Hey, you,” Whitney said, sweeping into the kitchen in a gorgeous sundress and heels, throwing her arms around Claire. Speed speed speed speed, went the voice in Claire’s head. “We had a spill out there, so I’ve been sent on a mission to find paper towels.”

“Right over here,” Christopher said, indicating the counter behind him. “Whitney, right? Nice to see you again.”

“Christopher,” she said with the studied coolness of a woman being civil to her close friend’s cheating husband. He held out his arms for a hug, and she walked behind the kitchen island to give him a stiff kiss on the cheek, resting a hand on his shoulder to balance herself as she went up on tiptoe.

“I was just telling Claire,” he said, “that I can’t wait to see what all this playgroup-music fuss is about.”

Gwen poked her head in. “There you are, Claire! Ready to get started?”

So Claire set up her guitar and the props Gwen had bought for her to use—a bubble machine, a parachute, sparkly egg shakers, and rainbow-colored scarves—in the middle of the living room while Gwen ushered the older children to spots on the rug and the women gathered with their husbands and babies. Claire strummed a C chord.

“Hey, everyone,” she said, mustering all the positive energy she could find. “Who’s feeling happy to be here for Reagan’s birthday?” The audience whoo-ed, some of the adults lifting their children’s arms into the air. “Well,” Claire continued, and launched into song, “If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands.”

As she sang, her eyes landed on Whitney, leaning over toward her husband, who was holding Hope and moving her little hands in a clapping motion for her. There was Vicki, now bouncing her baby next to her buttoned-up husband, a contrast so stark Claire almost wanted to laugh. And then she locked eyes with Amara.

It was all well and good, in the mustiness of her apartment, to say, Screw them all! But as Claire watched them laughing with their babies and their husbands, these women who had made her feel wanted again, a great wave of sadness crashed down upon her anger. Goddammit. She could feel a reckoning coming on.

Chapter 21

In the crowd of people, Whitney stood in between Grant and Christopher. Oh, the thrilling disaster of it all, the nearness of Christopher as he casually settled himself on her left side while Grant reached for her hand on the right. She was racked with guilt and wetter than she’d ever been before.

It had started in the kitchen. She’d known he was in there, so when one of Rosie’s little friends had spilled a cup of juice, she’d jumped at the chance to go get paper towels, just to see him, to say hello as if she barely remembered him.

She’d gone behind the kitchen island and, marshaling every ounce of self-control she had, kissed him casually on the cheek. And then he had reached his hand up where the island hid their lower halves and run a finger underneath her dress, slipping it for one heavenly second inside her underwear and into her while he kept talking to Claire and the others in the kitchen.

As everyone else began to slowly migrate into the living room for the music, Whitney made her way to the counter and grabbed some paper towels. “It’s a lovely party so far,” she said.

“Thanks!” he said as she walked back behind the island, where the path to get by him was quite narrow. “Yes, we’re very happy with how it’s going.”

“Oops, excuse me!” she said as she brushed her ass against the front of his pants, and he stiffened.

She was appalled at herself, of course, at the kind of woman she had turned out to be—an adulteress. A friend betrayer. A liar.

But she also felt a perverse thrill of excitement and maybe even pride at the kind of woman she had turned out to be—someone who had discovered a whole new level of desire and sensuality that she hadn’t known existed before. An adventurer giving a big middle finger to all the rules she’d worked so hard to follow. Not just a wife and mother, but an interesting and flawed and full woman.

Now she squeezed her legs tight against each other and focused on Claire, who had launched into “Old MacDonald.” That was good. Nothing remotely sexy about Old MacDonald and his farm. Unless Old MacDonald was really more of a middle-aged MacDonald with Christopher’s face, and he wanted to take you for a roll in the hay in the barn out back . . .