The floor-to-ceiling windows that frame a skyline view hit first, followed by the scale of the place. It’s enormous and glorious and far too much home for two people. We pass through a grand hallway, and I glance around through open passages. Her ridiculous kitchen island is big enough to host a cooking show.
This place is exactly what Jason once promised me. It was part of the deal of being with him—all those hollow promises. A stately apartment. Brand new cars every year. Six annual vacations, spread out every other month. I can still hear him cheekily say, “We’d do every month, but Idohave to work.” It was a joke, because we both knew he didn’t really have to.
For Baylocks, working is a choice some of them make.
The living room is where the panic about my boys skyrockets.
The couch is cream, and not a single mark stains it. The throw pillows are arranged in precise asymmetry, each the same cream as the couch, but with various patterns woven into the fabric. A giant abstract painting hangs over the fireplace, neutral tones and subtle texture.
It’s beautiful. Expensive. Easy to ruin.
I glance down at Nicholas drooling on my sweater. My apartment smells like formula and sleep deprivation. There are burp cloths draped over chairs. Bottles are drying on the counter. Laundry is perpetually in some stage of being folded or unfolded.
Here? There’s not a single stray sock or stuffed zebra in sight.
“Come in, come in,” Faith says, ushering me into the living room. “I had them bring pastries.” She doesn’t say who bright pastries. That would be gauche. We both know it was servants of some kind. They don’t get names. They get “them” because servants’ names never matter to people at this echelon.
I used to picture myself here. Barefoot on this hardwood floor. Hosting brunches. Wearing cream sweaters and not thinking about milk stains. Not learning servants’ names.
The fact that he bought it for her instead is cruel. Even for Jason.
But the feeling is fleeting, because when Walker squirms and lets out a tiny impatient cry, the sound fills this pristine room with something that means more. Abruptly, I realize I wouldn’t trade my messy apartment for this sterile perfection. Not anymore.
Faith leads us out onto the balcony with a tray of tea that had been waiting on a rolling cart by the outer French door. I’m relieved she doesn’t expect us to sit on that fragile cream couch in the living room.
A breeze is warmed by restaurant-grade outdoor heaters along the edges of the space. The balcony overlooks the river and the stretch of downtown Snow Valley that everyone pretends is charming instead of small. The railing is black iron. There are matching outdoor chairs with cream cushions that have never known a spill.
Until today, I’m sure.
“I love it out here. You can see the leaves turning,” Faith says, glancing toward the trees.
The leaves are just starting to burn orange at the edges. The air has that crisp bite I’ve always loved. Not cold yet. Just sharpenough to wake you up unless you have specialized heaters. Fall has always been my season. Sweaters. Bonfires. Pumpkin spice everything. The smell of leaves.
Faith pours tea into delicate cups that look like they belong in a period drama. I set Nicholas down in the twin stroller and brace myself for judgment about…well, anything.
The balcony is staged perfection. A small lantern centerpiece. A neatly folded throw draped over one chair. Potted plants to liven the space. Everything curated, nothing accidental.
My place is the opposite. There are baby swings wedged into corners. Diaper boxes stacked beside the couch because I forgot to break them down. A pacifier that lives permanently between the cushions.
Faith hands me a cup. “You look good.”
“So do you.”
She smiles softly.
We sit in silence for a moment, the breeze moving gently around us. The river below catches the light in clean silver streaks.
“Do you remember,” she says suddenly, “when Mom made us be matching witches for Halloween?”
I groan. “With the stupid velvet hats.”
“And the tights that itched.”
“And you cried because mine were a darker shade of purple.”
“You cried because mine were shinier.”
We laugh. For a moment, it’s just us. Not brides and exes and babies and reputations. Just two sisters on a shared balcony, remembering childhood.
