This does nothing to soften the sudden edge to Collette’s expression.
“You want to get into a good college, don’t you?” I say. “Prep work doesn’t start in high school. They’re going to look back at your entire student transcript. Tutoring, starring in plays—all of that will look great, especially if you still have your eye on a theater major.”
Collette’s voice is so soft that I almost don’t hear it. “Stop.”
“What?”
“Stop it,” she says, a little louder now. “You know Finnegan sucks, and Mrs. Blevins sucks. You’re lying about wanting us to be friends. You lie all the time.”
“No, I—”
“You even lie to Dad,” she fires back, before I can argue. “You didn’t want him to know that I went to the trial today. You wanted me to tell him we went to the dentist. Why wouldn’t we just tell him the truth?”
My eyes dart to the doorway. I’m almost expecting Waylen to be standing there, waiting for an answer, as though they’ve formed an alliance against me and planned to strike. But it’s just Collette, the living evidence of the one time in my life I was foolish enough to fall in love.
I want—not for the first time—to tell her everything. I want to tell her about Mr. X in particular, who asks about her when he’s brazen enough to be vulnerable with me. I want to tell her that the world is rife with injustices justlike the one we learned about in the courtroom today, and that life is nothing like the fantasy books she reads: Sometimes the good guy doesn’t win. Sometimes good doesn’t prevail. Sometimes the world is cruel and ugly and filled with villains who get off scot-free.
I want to tell her that I can’t fix all of it but that I do whatever small bit I can to right the wrongs that are out there. I want to tell her that motherhood didn’t make me soft the way that Waylen hoped. It made me hard. It filled me with rage and defiance and a passion that scares me even now, because it hasn’t dulled, it hasn’t faded, and I know that it never will.
But all I say is, “Your father doesn’t understand.” I hate how patronizing I sound. So I add, “He doesn’t want you to know about crimes like that, but I disagree. I think you should. I think knowing what’s out there will keep you safe.”
Collette frowns pensively. It’s quiet for a long time after that. She watches as I eat what’s left on the plate, even though my appetite is gone, and I want to go online and do a bit more research on Bertram before going to bed.
“Can I go to another one?” Collette asks.
I look up at her.
“Trials,” she presses. “I had fun.”
After dinner, I brush her hair, braid it, and spray it with a water-and-conditioner solution she found the recipe for online. It promises to add volume, and who am I to argue? I smile at her. It is nice, I think, when things are normal.
By the time she’s settled in, the house is quiet. Waylen has left his office and climbed into bed, though I don’t believe he’s asleep.
I sit on my side of the bed and watch the rise and fall ofhis chest. It’s only in the still, late, dark quiet of the night that I can’t hide from myself. That’s when I love him the most, in a way that cuts through all the layers I wear like armor. I love that he cares about Collette and me—really cares about us. I even love that he’s jealous of my job, because it means he wants me to be safe. I love that this life we’ve built makes me feel normal, like the fire never happened. When I’m with him, it’s a preview of who I might have been if things had gone differently.
When we got married, he and I stood at the altar envisioning different things, surrounded on all sides by lilies and violets. He wanted domestic bliss, and I anticipated something more like Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
A long time ago, before all of this, I could have settled for an easy life like the one I pretend to lead, one where the biggest problem is whether we can afford a new water heater, or how to survive a holiday with my in-laws.
Waylen doesn’t know about what happened to me between then and now. He doesn’t know about the trial, the accusations, and all the work it took for me to reinvent myself.
Tell him, something within me whispers, the way it often does. But I push the thought away. Even if I’m living a lie, I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want to lose him.
Five
When the drop-off line is finally empty, and the last child is safely through the double doors of the school, I wait for Elodie. Her domineering personality may not have earned her a lot of heartfelt friendships, but it has gifted her with social connections. The other parking police volunteers flock around her like crows on carrion, all trying to maintain her favor.
It turns out she’s especially close to Principal Wheeler, though she’s vague on the specifics. And her husband is coaching the middle school soccer team and has a lot of say in which teams will receive funding for new equipment in the spring. Where did she come from? This magnet capable of making us all orbit around her like planets around a burning new sun.
I’m still deciding whether I like her, or how much of a fool I’d be to trust her.
This morning we texted back and forth about our coverstory. Turns out she has an interest in interior design and she wants to come along with me as I consult with a client about new ceiling fixtures. At least, that’s the story she’s telling the clucking hens as she says her goodbyes and then makes her way to my car. She’s still smiling and waving as she climbs into the passenger seat and pulls the door shut.
“God, they’re boring,” she says. “But at least they’re not catty like the ones in LA.”
“They’re still catty,” I assure her. “Just wait until Girl Scout cookie season, and try to dodge any flying foldout tables.”
She snorts. “I still like Connecticut, even if it’s cold,” she says, prying off her gloves so she can warm her fingers by the heating vent on the dash. “The beach sort of sucks, but you can’t beat the lobster rolls.”
