Gwen glanced toward Maggie, letting her take the reins.
Maggie’s whole body tensed. “Uh… yeah, about that.”
The group erupted with cheers before anyone could hear Maggie add something after the wordyeah. Someone said something about matching outfits. Izzy started chanting, “Group trip! Group trip!”
Gwen ducked back inside. The camera panned to a giddy Danica.
Maggie smiled. She laughed. She nodded along. And when she hung up, her hands were trembling.
Inside, Gwen was rinsing a cup at the sink, water running in a slow stream like nothing had happened. The kitchen gleamed with the kind of thoughtful elegance that only an architect like Gwen could pull off — custom cabinetry, quartzite counters,matte brass hardware. The pendant lights over the island cast a warm glow over the wide-plank oak floors. Maggie had picked the tile behind the stove, a Moroccan-style pattern in smoky blues and grays. They’d argued about it for a week, then spent an afternoon installing it together, laughing when Gwen got grout on her nose. That memory lived here, embedded in the walls, even if neither of them ever talked about it. Now Gwen moved through the space like it was neutral ground, like she hadn’t just detonated a social bomb in the group chat.
Gwen’s sleeve slipped up as she reached for a cup, revealing the edge of her tattoo. Maggie had almost forgotten about it — the sharp Gothic arched window framed in vines. The lines were clean, deliberate, the kind of precision Gwen brought to everything.
It used to fascinate her, that balance of structure and wildness. Now it just made her ache a little. The vines had crept further than she remembered, curling around the empty space like they were trying to fill it.
She caught herself rubbing her own arm, thumb brushing the petals of her old peony tattoo. The ink had faded a little—too many summers, too much sunscreen forgotten—but she still loved it. Hers was softer, looser, like it hadn’t known what it wanted to be when she’d gotten it.
Gwen’s was all intent. Maggie’s was all impulse. Somehow, that had once worked. Now? The stark difference was all she could see.
“I was going to tell them,” Maggie said, her voice sharper than she intended. “And then you popped in and they lost their minds.Gwyneth?”
Gwen didn’t turn around. “Going along with it seems easier for everyone.”
“Easier?” Maggie echoed, incredulous. “Not for me it isn’t.”
“What do you want, Maggie?” Gwen asked, finally turning to face her. Her tone was infuriatingly calm. “Youwant to be separated but not divorced. You want me to sleep in the guest room, but you won’t tell your friends. I don’t make decisions anymore because no matter what, it’s always wrong.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No? Because it sounds an awful lot like you’re mad I went along with yet another decision you didn’t want to deal with.”
Maggie blinked. “I’ve been dealing with everything. The kids. The house. Pretending we’re fine?—”
“No one asked you to pretend,” Gwen snapped. “You’re the one who didn’t want to tell them.”
“I was trying to keep things from getting messy with them,” Maggie hissed. “I can tell everyone after the bachelorette party. Or the wedding.”
“They’re already messy. You just don’t want to be the one who gets blamed for making it official.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is living in limbo because you won’t pick a direction.”
Maggie took a step forward. “You think this is easy for me? That I’m sitting here loving the uncertainty?”
Gwen crossed her arms. “You say you’re tired of making all the choices, but you won’t let anyone else make them either.”
The words hit hard, because they weren’t wrong. And Maggie hated that Gwen had the upper hand in this — hated that she could sound so reasonable while Maggie felt like she was spinning out.
“So yes, I’m going along with your plan. We can just pretend we’re a happily married couple for the weekend and you can tell them when you’re ready,” Gwen said. “Unless you’d rather be the one to explain why I’m not there.” She slowly set the rinsed cup into the drying rack and walked out of the kitchen.
Maggie stared after her, the silence loud enough to drown in. Her stomach twisted. She was flushed, breath tight, heart hammering like it wanted to climb out of her chest. Her brain flooded with a thousand exit strategies — anything that might feel less awful than this.
She could disappear. Change her name. Start a candle shop in Portugal. Or maybe one of those weird bookstores in a town with no stoplights. Somewhere Gwen would never think to look.
Instead, she just stood there, still clutching her phone, as if it could offer her away out.
Sapphics on the Strip
