“Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?” Esme chanted. “Can Luna sleep over? Mommy? Mommy? Can she? Can she?”
“Mama, can she? Please? Please? Can she? We’ll be good! I promise! We will be!” Imogen said. She would never need a bullhorn, no sir.
“Daddy, can I sleep over? Please? Please? Can I?” Luna added.
Amazing that people wanted children. Winnie liked having nieces and a nephew, but this? All day, every day? The world was crowded enough, and bless her sisters for procreating so her parents had grandchildren, releasing Winnie from any guilt they might try on her.
“Yes, yes, fine,” Addie said. “Of course. Luna, we love having you. Find something to do, though. The grownups are talking about your aunt Winnie and her problems.”
“What problems?” Esme asked. “Did you do something bad, Aunt Winnie? What was it? Did you kill someone?”
“I’ll never tell,” Winnie said. “My glass is empty, by the way.” Grady obliged with a gentle smile. Her favorite brother-in-law. Had Dante poured the wine, he would’ve nabbed the title, but the night was Grady’s.
“You did. You killed someone,” Esme said. “You’re so fun, Aunt Winnie.”
“I really am.”
“Don’t encourage her, Winnie,” Nicole snapped. “Girls, killing people is wrong. Go watch a movie.” The children obeyed, but Imogen first lowered her head and took a massive bite of cake, no hands. The kid grinned up at her, and Winnie gave a slight nod of approval before Nicole herded them off.
“Winnie, my dear, we all know who you are,” Grandpop said. “And we love and support you.”
“Thanks, Grandpop.” She felt the unfamiliar sting of tears and ordered them not to fall. She hadn’t cried since she was eight, and she wasn’t about to start now.
“We’re all still going to trivia night, right?” Harlow said. “Semifinals.” Harlow took her trivia team way too seriously.
“Of course I’m going. I’m the DJ,” said Robbie. “The most important person there.”
“Come with us, Winnie,” said Lark. “It’ll be good for you to get out. Dante and I are coming, too.”
“We’ll make sure you have fun,” Dante said. “And if anything happens, we’re your bodyguards, how’s that?”
Fun brought forth images of a cozy house in Antarctica, with only penguins for neighbors. Winnie wouldn’t have to talk to anyone, just ice fish, keep a fire going and focus on not freezing to death. Better than the pointed stares and whispers and hostile mutters she’d encountered these past few days. You’d think society would be past that—how many politicians had blatantly cheated on their spouses? How many actors? It didn’t hurt their careers, did it? But here in Puritanical Massachusetts, it seemed like women were still blamed for husbands who couldn’t keep it in their pants.
“Please come,” Rosie said.
Winnie hesitated. She wanted to crawl into bed and rewatch The Office for the nineteenth time and doomscroll. But she knew better. She was heartbroken (and a little drunk), and if she went home, she’d almost definitely curl into a ball and cry. Being with her family was probably the safer option. “Sure,” she said. This way, she could also avoid seeing how many more clients had canceled.
And face the fact that Mitchell—i.e., Tanner Johnson—hadn’t reached out. Mitchell, the first man who’d ever said he loved her, outside of Dad and Grandpop. The only man Winnie had ever loved.
“I love trivia night!” said Grandpop, who was on Harlow’s team. “But we should stay and help Addie and Nicole clean up. You lovely girls are such wonderful hostesses! I ate thirteen of those little water chestnuts wrapped in bacon. My favorite!”
“Please don’t stay,” Nicole said bluntly. “I’d rather clean up on my own.”
“We’ll give the girls their baths and tuck-ins, how’s that?” Mom suggested.
And so off they went…Grandpop, Harlow and Grady, Lark and Dante, Robbie and Rosie…and Winnie, the other Smith kid.
Harlow was a pillar of the town, the oldest, the smart one who got full scholarships for college and law school. She now ran Open Book, a bustling indie bookstore, with Grandpop. Addison, one of the stunningly beautiful identical twins, had “married well” and was now one of those irritating mommy influencers, showing off her beautiful daughters, beautiful home and beautiful wife. Lark, the other stunningly beautiful twin, was a doctor who had recently married a Boston firefighter. She was the kindest soul in the universe and everyone’s favorite (Winnie’s, too). Robbie was the baby of the family, spoiled since Mom first pushed him into the world. He was The Boy, carrier of the Smith family surname, named after Grandpop and now marrying Rosie, Harlow’s best friend from college.
And then there was Winnie. The other one. The one whose name people couldn’t remember (Robbie made a sport out of it), the not-beautiful, not-brilliant sister who, until she became the aforementioned home-wrecking whore, had pretty much blended into the background. “Oh, you’re one of the Smiths? The bookstore sister? The one with the big house on Lieutenant Island? The doctor? No? I guess I didn’t know there were four girls.”
But in the past few years, she’d busted her ass as an event planner. It was a great job for someone who liked to be in the background, who put in countless hours to create the best event for a small budget, who would make something beautiful and fun and touching and also set up thirty tables and serve drinks if the bartender didn’t show. It wasn’t like it had been her particular calling, but she’d done some seasonal work for an established event planner for a few years, was organized and hard-working. Jobs were hard to find, and when her boss moved to France, Winnie did her best to fill the niche. Now that career was over. Robbie and Rosie’s wedding would stave off the bills for a little while, but she’d either have to rebound or find something else to do.
All because she’d fallen in love with a rat bastard, lying, cheating asshole chef.
Last week, Nycholiss (as in Nicholas) Johnson turned five, an event Winnie had organized—dinosaur bounce house, dinosaur cake, dinosaur party favors, dinosaur games. Fifty guests, most of them adults, with a dozen or so kids under the age of ten—friends, classmates, cousins, as well as younger sisters Bruklynne (as in New York) and Kaedeigh (as in Katie). Blakelee, the mother of the birthday boy and lover of misspelled names, had tapped her glass, and the guests fell silent, expecting a toast about how wonderful Nycholiss was.
“I have something to say,” she began, her voice hard. “Yes, it’s my son’s birthday, and happy birthday, Nycholiss. But I think everyone here should know that Winnie Smith, my party planner, has been sleeping with my husband. Don’t even think about denying it, Winnie, and shame on you for being the kind of woman who’s willing to break up a family. You’re disgusting.”
