Rox got me over the hump that day in the café—over my fear of commitment and my college-years addiction to chasing bad boys—and I threw myself headlong into my marriage with Graham and headlong into my career. And I was content for a while, even ecstatic.
Soon after, I became pregnant with Jack.
And pregnancy—the surge of hormones, the urgent desire to nest—deeply bonded me to Graham. He would stand in the kitchen after working all day and make me elaborate dishes. Chicken piccata, mushroom risotto, cooking on a whim to satisfy my latest cravings, and as our evening drew to a close, we’dsink into our pillowy sofa and he’d cradle my feet in his strong hands, massaging them until I drifted off to sleep.
After Jack arrived, I loved them both with a fierceness I never thought possible. Jack was a colicky baby, his face beet red and screwed up into a wet ball most nights, but Graham would lift him from me and walk the floors until he was soothed while I rested in between feedings.
I felt like I wore new-mommy-hood well. I luxuriated in the whole attachment-parenting phenomenon—wearing Jack in a pumpkin-orange sling across my chest as often as I could, having him sleep tucked between me and Graham. And I stayed home from the magazine for a full six months before I managed to peel myself away from his tender, warm body that always smelled to me like peach cobbler.
I tried to put down roots in Evanston. Literally. I planted a showy rose garden in our backyard one Saturday morning while Jack snoozed in his stroller in a patch of sunlight.
I promised myself I’d be a better mom to Jack than Nikki was to me.
But after a year or so into Jack’s life, my old bad-boy urges resurfaced when I profiled a painter for the magazine. He was an Austrian transplant named V, short for Victor, and the assignment almost led to a fling. After the piece ran, V—tall and tattooed—texted and begged me to go out for drinks in return for running such a glowing article.
I knew what he really wanted, of course, and I’m ashamed to admit that I wanted it, too. And fantasized about it. There were sparks between us, so one sunny afternoon, I left the office early and went to a pub across town to meet him for happy hour.
I strolled down the sidewalk in a yellow sundress, adrenaline shooting through me at the prospect of what was about to happen, but when I peered through the warbled glass door of the pub and saw the back of his head as he waited at the bar, I stopped in my tracks. He wasn’t my Graham, and I knew what I’d be in danger of losing if I stepped through that door.
I turned and walked away.
—
ERIN AND Ihad been more in touch since having kids, and I was lured by the glimpses of Mapleton she’d show on Facebook: family picnics at a nearby berry farm with homemade pint jars of lemonade at their fingertips. The three of them—Erin, Ryan, and Mattie—at a Halloween carnival in downtown Mapleton, sipping mugs of apple cider in front of a giant pumpkin patch.
If I’m being honest with myself, yes, I wanted to move back here for Jack, for us, but also, it seemed like the kind of place where I could conform to the version of my very best self. In moving here, I thought I could become someone more wholesome, more grounded. Someone I could admire. Someone like Erin, for instance.
As it turns out, you can’t outrun who you are. My darker urges simply followed me here and are even more amplified because it’s so quiet, and sometimes so boring.
And though I’d do anything to be back in the café with Rox just now, talking through everything, I know exactly what she’d say.
She’d tell me that my feelings are normal. That I couldn’t have predicted how isolating working from home alone could be, especially living in a small town. That it’s understandable I was eager to ditch the hustle and bustle of the magazine world, but that there’s a real part of me that misses the glamour of it all.
She’d tell me that I’m now getting my glamour fix from fantasizing about Margot, and that I need to find a healthier outlet. That I should find what I’m looking forwithin.
11
Friday, March 23, 2018
I’M DRIVING OUTto Margot’s lake house. The GPS says I still have twenty-three minutes to go and it’s already six fifteen. I’m running late.
I told Graham about it last night during dinner. I made sure to top off his wine first, and between forkfuls of roasted chicken and potatoes (his favorite), I asked if he minded my going.
He swished the wine around in his glass and beamed at me. “Who are you, Annie Oakley now?”
I soft punched his shoulder.
“Who’s going to break the news to Ryan and Erin?” he asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“I was going to surprise you, actually. I made dinner plans with them at the pub for Friday. And I booked a sitter.” He raised his glass to his lips, took a sip. “And also, I think I’m developing a crush on Ryan.”
“I think you’re adorable. And I think you’re just as bored as I am in this town,” I said, and leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
“Heeeey, Mommee!” Jack chirped. “I want iPad!”
His plate was licked clean, so I complied. “Sure thing, Jack-o-licious.”
