It’s a group text, with a string of numbers I don’t recognize. But then I read the name of the group chat and understand:
THE HUNTING WIVES
903-555-8528: You know the drill. 6:30 pm, Friday night at my place. Jill—how did Alex take it?
903-555-0947 is typing. A few moments pass, then finally:
He’s fine. Pouting but he’ll get over it. Wouldn’t lay a finger on me last night.
I’m piecing together who is who and creating new contacts as quickly as I can.
Margot: Oh poor baby. As if one night of no sex will kill ya.
Jill:?
354-555-8956: I’m in!
Must be Tina, Fort Worth area code. Then:
Callie:
I couldn’t believe Margot had actually invited me last night. I figured she was drunk, that she wouldn’t follow through. But here she is, asking me. My head is spinning.
I start to type and then stop. Start to type and then stop. Then settle on:Sounds so fun! I’m in as well!
Margot: yay
Me: Just curious, how did you guys get my cell?
Margot: From Facebook. Where your life is laid bare.
I can’t tell if she’s talking about my life or everyone’s in general.
Margot: and oops, here’s my address: 714 Forest Lake Road... you’ll drive forever, if GPS fails you, call one of us.
Tina: And boots! Wear some boots.
I type back:thanks!
—
I SET MYphone down next to me. My face is flushed, and my heart is pinging in mychest.
10
IF MAPLETON WEREa shape, it would be an oval. At the top of the oval is the tallest hill in town, the only real vista in Mapleton. Graham jokes that it feels like we’re living inside a bowl. And he’s right, of course. There are no sweeping views in town other than on top of the ridge, a sharp, jutting chunk of red clay that seems formed by a long-ago earthquake. The rest of Mapleton, the newer part—our neighborhood, the strip malls—dips down into the bowl where the sight line is obscured by a screen of towering pines.
The ridge is postcard Mapleton: the historical downtown district with its ancient churches and storefronts, the redbrick high school—ivy coated, with arched passageways—and the quaint library lined with stained glass windows. It’s also where the money houses are, like Margot’s. And also Margot’s in-laws’, the Banks estate, where the party was held last night.
It’s midmorning and I’m driving past the outskirts of their neighborhood now, killing time while making my usual weekday stops. To the dry cleaner’s to pick up Graham’s lightly starched shirts, to the market for groceries and ingredients for strawberry cupcakes for a bake sale later this week at Jack’s preschool.
The whole of Mapleton is encircled by a four-lane highway—appropriatelyknown as “the Loop”—and as I cruise down it, past Castle Hill, then on past Margot’s neighborhood, a flicker of excitement zips through me.
—
I KNOW MYfixation with Margot isn’t normal. It’s one step beyond normal, and I know what my old friend Rox, from the magazine, would say—that I’m once again chasing something unattainable, something unhealthy—and for a moment, I’m filled with a sharp longing to be back in Chicago, sitting across the table from her at the café we used to frequent, talking about our lives.
I hired Rox as the art director of the magazine just six months into my tenure as editor. She had short, spiky black hair with the tips dyed in bright greens or purples. Her blue eyes were so pale, they almost looked silver. She wore the same uniform most days—an army jacket or black leather motorcycle jacket over expensive jeans.
