A laugh bursts out of me, sharp and wet. I swipe at my eyes and type back.
Me:The second one. Can we meet? Please.
Zoe:Name the corpse, babe. Tell me where to pick you up
Relief doesn’t fix everything, but it cracks a window in the pressure cooker. Tamara’s off-limits for this kind of venting—it wouldn’t be fair to dump this on her when I’m desperate to talk to someone without holding back, which includes coming clean about Logan.
Charlie and Claire both have kids and jobs, and while I love them, they wouldn’t give me the cold, hard honesty I need right now. So that leaves Zoe. She’ll let me vent about the PTA, and she’ll make me laugh about the Logan confession in the same breath.
By the time I get home, I’m wrung out. I dump my bag on the kitchen counter, strip out of my work clothes, and pull on leggings, UGGs, and an oversized sweater. My hair goes up in a messy bun that probably won’t survive the hour.
Then I step outside, letting the night air bite at my cheeks. The porch boards are cool behind my leggings as I sink onto the steps, the sky just starting to ink toward purple.
I fold my arms tight, breathing until the lump in my throat loosens.
“Not enough whiskey in Denver to fix that face,” a voice calls from next door.
I glance over to find Betty leaning against her railing, silver hair coiffed perfectly, a tweed, woollen coat tucked snug around her. She looks like she’s about to chair a board meeting.
“Rough day at the happiness factory, Sugarplum?”
I huff a laugh, kicking at a step. “More like the gladiator pit. PTA moms, one. Lulu, zero.”
Betty tsks, crossing the grass with surprising speed for someone in satin slippers. She lowers herself onto the step beside me with a soft groan. “Darling, PTA mothers are professional assassins. They eat stubborn young teachers for breakfast and floss with their tears. You’ll never win playing their game.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “Feels like they’re setting me up to fail, and the principal isn’t exactly in my corner.”
Betty hums, watching me closely. “Then you stop playing for them. Play for the kids. They’ll remember the teacher who fought for their spotlight, not the cow in pearls who tried to snatch it away.”
The knot in my chest loosens just a little. “You make it sound so simple.”
“Life usually is.” She pats my knee, scandalously red-polished nails flashing. “Don’t give the bitches your sparkle. Keep your shine, and let them choke on the glare.”
I lean into her shoulder, smiling despite myself. “You always know what to say.”
“Of course I do. I’ve had sixty-eight years of outliving men and mothers who thought they knew better.” She nudges me with her elbow. “Speaking of men—you still sneaking around with our broody Hockey Boy?”
Heat blooms on my cheeks. “Betty—”
“Oh, relax.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Your secret’s safe. I’m not the one you should be worried about. Just make sure when you do tell your brother, it’s onyourterms, and not because you get caught with his teammate’s tongue down your throat.”
I groan into my hands. “You’re outrageous.”
“And right,” she sings, patting my head.
Before I can reply, headlights sweep across the porch. Zoe’s car pulls up, music thumping. She hops out, already grinning.
“Emergency response team, reporting for duty!”
I get to my feet and then turn to offer Betty a hand to stand.
“Well, look who it is, legs and trouble all in one package.”
“Betty, my queen!” Zoe marches straight across my lawn to hug her. “Still corrupting the neighborhood one terrified deliveryman at a time?”
“Somebody’s gotta keep things spicy.” Betty leans in and kisses Zoe’s cheek like they’ve been besties forever. “You ditching me for girls’ night?”
“Don’t tempt me. I’ll take you with us.”
