“But that’s the whole problem,” I said, realizing that I’d been doing for years exactly what she was doing now—creating a public version of myself that came along with a whole I’m-just-so-happy story that was pure fiction. “Why use it if you’re just going to pretend to be someone you’re not?”

“I’m not pretending anything,” she said hotly. “It’s still me. It’s just a different me. And I don’t get what the big deal is. It’s just my face with makeup on.”

“Why don’t you ever post a photo without all the makeup on?”

“Did you ever post a photo of yourself without makeup on?”

I stared at her, annoyed by her keen understanding of things as well as her sassy tone. “You’re making this really difficult.”

“So ground me.”

I sat up straight. “I don’t want to just ground you, Whitney. I want to figure this out, so can you please drop the attitude? I realize you’re angry at your dad and probably at me, and I’m trying to figure out if this is an act of defiance on your part to get back at us, or if you’re just a girl who really likes Urban Decay, all right? Help me out here!”

“Sorry,” she said, but she rolled her eyes afterward.

I took a deep breath. “Look, I understand wanting to feel beautiful. What woman doesn’t? And I remember what it’s like to be thirteen and feel weird in your own skin. Add to that all the drama you’ve had to deal with over the last few months . . . I’d want to pretend to be another me too sometimes.”

She was silent for a moment. “Does that mean I can keep the account?”

I regarded my daughter, telling myself not to react out of fear but out of love and understanding. “As long as you are using these photos to express something about yourself and not”—I struggled for the right words—“not prove something to someone, or even to yourself, I suppose you can keep the account.”

She allowed me a tiny smile. “Thanks.”

“But I’m going to follow you.”

The smile disappeared and she rolled her eyes again.

“And you have to keep it private and never, ever answer anyone you don’t know who tries to message you. To monitor that, I’ll need your login.”

A scowl formed. “Maybe I don’t even want it anymore.”

“That’s fine too,” I said. “Now come here.”

Grudgingly, she came and sat next to me on the bed, and I put an arm around her. “You know I love you, and I want you to be happy and safe.”

She was silent.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

She didn’t say anything right away.

And then.

“Is Henry your boyfriend now or something?”

I stiffened, but tried not to let her notice. “Of course not. We’re just friends. Why do you ask?”

She shrugged. “He’s around a lot since we’ve been back. I see you talking to him all the time.”

“Oh. Well, he’s been here for many years. You probably just never noticed.” I paused. “We’re getting to know each other better, that’s all. We’ve got a lot in common.”

“I didn’t know he had a wife.” She played with a loose thread on the comforter. “Did he cheat on her like Dad cheated on you?”

“No! Their divorce was nothing like your dad’s and mine. They just sort of . . . grew apart.”

“When?”

“I think earlier this year.”

She took that in. “So you’re not dating him?”

“No, Whitney. I’m not dating him. We’re just friends.” In the back of my mind, I could still hear my words hanging in the air . . . You lied to me. You hid this from me. I wish you would have come to me and just been honest.

But I wasn’t lying to her, was I? I wasn’t dating Henry. Dating was when you went places together, like movies or restaurants or concerts. Henry and I stuck to hallways and bathtubs and subterranean offices. Those were definitely not dates. They were two people helping one another through a hard time, making life a little less lonely, reassuring each other that their deepest insecurities weren’t the truth.

But as I hugged Whitney goodnight and left her room, a knot began forming in my stomach.

The knot continued to tighten, growing ever more complicated while I loaded the mugs in the dishwasher, said goodnight to my parents, and coaxed Keaton up to bed. After he’d put his pajamas on and brushed his teeth, I turned off his light and went and sat on the edge of his bed.

“Did you have fun tonight?” I asked, brushing his hair off his face.

“Yeah. Mr. DeSantis is cool. Can I really go to his boxing gym?”

“Sure.” I glanced at the nightstand, which I’d emptied the other night without saying anything to Keaton. If I opened it right now, what would I find? “I think some physical activity will be good for you. Especially after the holidays. We’re all eating so much junk food.”

He didn’t say anything.

I forced myself to be brave. “It’s been really hard, hasn’t it, this first Christmas without your dad. It feels strange.”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes when things feel hard or strange, we do things to try to make ourselves feel better, like eat cookies or chips. But it doesn’t really work, because we can’t . . . eat away our bad feelings.”

“Do you do that? Eat when you feel bad?”

“Sometimes.”

“Like when?”

“Like when I’m sad.”

He paused. “I do it when I’m mad at Dad.”

Relieved that it was finally out, I took a deep breath and continued stroking his hair. “I understand.”

“But it doesn’t help.”

My throat got tight, and I swallowed hard. “No, it doesn’t, does it? But you know what?”

“What?”

“I bet boxing will. And when you start school, making new friends will. And I’m definitely going to need your helping picking out a house.”

“And a dog?” he asked hopefully.

Sniffing, I laughed. “Maybe a dog. We’ll have to see, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You know what else will help?”

“What?”

“Talking to someone about how you feel. Aunt Frannie gave me the name of a counselor, and I’m going to make appointments for you and your sister after we get back from skiing.”

“Okay.”

I leaned over and kissed his head. “See you in the morning.”

“Night.”

Inside my room, I shut my door and flopped face down on my bed, wanting to believe I’d earned at least a B+ in parenting tonight, but feeling like shit for lying so blatantly to Whitney. It’s not like I didn’t understand her fears.

But being with Henry was the one thing I was doing for myself. Was it too much to ask to start the new year with something I was excited about? A little promise of hope that maybe I wouldn’t be so fucking lonely all the time?

Hope is something you can’t afford, scoffed that bitchy inner voice. Just where do you think this thing with Henry can go, anyway? How long do you think you’ll be able to hold his interest? You should put the brakes on now while you still can. For your sake, and for the kids’.