Whitney smiled blandly when Hope held up the grass to show her. “Ooh, look at that!” she said as, in her mind, she constructed a gigantic red countdown clock of the hours left until tomorrow afternoon, when she’d go meet Christopher for their weekly hotel date, when at least for an hour she could go be a desirable woman and not a swamp monster.

When she wanted to scream—at family dinner when Hope kept throwing her food on the floor, when she ground up the rest of her TrueMommy pills in the garbage disposal because she wanted so badly to pop them all in her mouth, that night when Grant started kissing her in the dark—she focused on the countdown clock. The hours ticked down slowly, but at least they were ticking.

And then, an hour before her babysitter was supposed to arrive, the stupid girl called her to cancel. That was what ruined everything.

“I am so sorry to mess up your ‘me time,’ but I’ve been throwing up all morning,” the girl mumbled into the phone. “Probably food poisoning.”

Probably hungover, Whitney thought, remembering that the girl had mentioned something last week about being almost finished with her finals. Unreliable bitch. “Oh, no!” she said, jiggling Hope against her waist with her free arm as Hope fussed and grabbed at her necklace. “Feel better! Do you have any friends who might be able to come in?”

“Hmm,” the girl said. Hope pulled the necklace tight around Whitney’s neck, nearly choking her. Whitney wrenched Hope’s fist away too roughly, and the chain of the necklace snapped, sending beads to the floor. Hope’s face teetered on that jagged edge of Happy Baby Land, beyond which lay Tantrum City. Whitney wanted to take a little trip to Tantrum City herself, to collapse onto the ground and wail about the way that everything was unraveling, but that was not an option right now. So Whitney gave Hope a big smile to keep her in the happy place while the babysitter continued. “I don’t think so, but I can text around and let you know.”

“That would be so great,” Whitney said. She hung up the phone, tempted to slam it against her marble countertop until it shattered while screaming every obscenity she knew. But that would scare Hope.

She pulled up Instagram and messaged Christopher, Last-minute babysitter woes! Any chance we could push till Friday instead? She picked up the tiny beads and tried to calm Hope while the minutes ticked away and she waited for her phone to make a noise, any noise.

And then her phone dinged, with a message from Christopher. I already rescheduled my meetings, so I wouldn’t be able to get away like this again until next Wednesday. Wait until then? I want you now.

An ache started between her legs, so much better than the ache that had taken up residence in her head the last couple of days, despite the Advil she’d been swallowing. She wanted him now too. No, it was more than wanting. It was full-on need. She already had to give up one addiction, but no way in hell was she giving up the other. Not right now. I’ll figure something out, she wrote. See you soon.

Still nothing from the terrible college girl she was never hiring again. Was there a Yelp for babysitters? She would give that bitch such a blistering review her skin would peel back. She wasn’t about to plop Hope down with some unvetted stranger from the Internet or some neighbor who might mention to Grant that, wow, Whitney sure had been jonesing for a massage on Wednesday afternoon, and it was a little odd.

So even though it was probably a bad idea, she called Claire.

“Hello?” Claire said after the third ring.

“Claire!” Whitney said, struggling to keep her desperation from creeping into her voice. “Quick question. Are you by any chance free to come over and babysit in the next half hour?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m actually on the way to one of my other jobs,” she said.

“Ooh, busy busy!” Whitney said, then leaned her forehead against the cool silver surface of her fridge. “And there’s no way I could convince you to come here instead?”

“Um . . . ,” Claire said.

“It’s just—it’s so silly, but I’ve been doing this little Wednesday ritual each week where I take some ‘me time’ and go get a massage. Helps me maintain my sanity, you know? My regular babysitter just canceled on me last minute, and what with everything that’s going on now, I really could use the hour of relaxation. I could pay you more than your typical going rate for such a last-minute ask!”

“Sorry. I just really don’t want to take the risk of getting fired,” Claire said. She hesitated. “But I could probably help out some other time this week if you can reschedule the massage?”

“Okay, maybe!” Whitney said. “Thanks, Claire!” This time when she hung up, she did scream some obscenities, only stopping when Hope began to whimper at the shock of it.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sweet baby,” Whitney said, gathering Hope in her arms and bouncing her up and down, humming to her until the whimpering tapered off. She kissed her child on the top of her head and then did the only thing she could think to do.

Chapter 27

Claire didn’t want to get fired from her part-time gig behind the counter at a new vintage clothing place in midtown. It paid eighteen dollars an hour and was the easiest job in the world. Hardly anyone ever came in, so she had plenty of time to think about song lyrics and melodies. Plus the owner of the store seemed stuck as far back in the past as all the clothing he curated, so there was no chance of Vagabond ever coming on the store’s Joni Mitchell–inspired playlist. But after she hung up the phone with Whitney, alarm bells in her brain went BING BING BING.

Whitney had sounded fucking bizarre, her voice higher than normal and so falsely cheerful, like she was one second away from bursting into tears. Sure, Claire thought, as she ducked around a group of tourists taking selfies right in the middle of the sidewalk, Whitney was going through withdrawal. But she’d been going through withdrawal on Monday, and then she’d been far more composed. Composed enough to convince them all to take their TrueMommy secret to the grave. So why was she now falling apart over a stupid massage?

Claire shook her head and kept walking toward the store. She’d never gone through withdrawal—it could very well hit a person differently depending on the day. Something rankled at Claire—something she was forgetting—but she needed to shrug that off and get back to reality. Hey, if Claire was used to getting a weekly massage, she’d probably be desperate for one right now too, after the stress of the last few days.

She stopped short on the sidewalk. A “Wednesday ritual,” Whitney had called it on the phone, which implied that she’d been doing it for a while. But a week and a half ago, in their room at Sycamore House, Whitney had said she hadn’t gotten a massage in forever. Hadn’t she? Claire concentrated, calling up the image of Whitney against the wall of their bedroom, trying to get at the knot in her shoulder.