“Aubrey, that’s it. You’re right. Aubrey.”
He slides his hands in his pockets, and she takes in that shirt she bought him but didn’t and the fact that they’re not together in this world, same as they aren’t together in hers. But in this world, they could be. Because in this world, Ethan isn’t dead.
8
Aubrey
Four WeeksBeforethe Outing
Aubrey stood between Ilena and Mallory waiting for the tears to come.
They hadn’t yet, not when she’d gotten the call from the hospital, not in the back seat of Ilena’s SUV as they crossed the Salt and Pepper Bridge to Mass General Hospital, not even as she’d nearly collapsed in the emergency room when that intern led her to the bed and pulled back the mint-green curtain, then the white sheet. Giving her an image she would trade anything not to have. She was his emergency contact, but not yet his next of kin. The proposal she’d accepted, the ring still to come.
Today she’d chosen black slip-on mules, not trusting herself to balance on heels. Though honestly, they were sneakers. The same ones she’d worn when she and Ethan had taken the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard and rented bikes for the day, stopping for lobster rolls and the obligatory photo op on the bridge fromJaws. That trip was her first experience with sex outdoors, which after the initial forbidden thrill, left her with sand in her underwear and a renewed appreciation for mattresses.
The ground was hard beneath her feet in this cemetery on Long Island. They’d taken the train to his hometown, Ilena handling the ticket and settling her into a seat, and Mallory carrying the bag she’d packed for Aubrey and slipping her the Xanax that softened the edges just enough for her to withstand the crippling guilt that almost prevented her from coming to Ethan’s funeral.
It was all her fault. If she hadn’t kept texting him, if she’d just let that one text be enough and not sent an impulsive, uncharacteristic second that must have made him feel compelled to respond even though he was walking across the street. If she had just let things be, not made that one, selfish choice, she wouldn’t be meeting the Sonders family for the first time in a cemetery.
But Mallory had been waiting for them in the bar. The drink she’d insisted was the perfect one for Aubrey and Ethan’s wedding reception already ordered. Aubrey was on her way, but she hadn’t gotten anything back from Ethan, not a “can’t wait” or “almost there” or thumbs-up or even just a smiley face to acknowledge the fact that his fiancée had texted him.
Aubrey was embarrassed, afraid of looking stupid in front of Mallory. Of all the things Mallory was good at pretending, liking Ethan wasn’t one of them. So she’d done it, sent that second text, and in the middle of a response to her left forever unfinished, he’d been hit by a bus. And do you have any idea how many jokes there are about being hit by a bus?
She vowed, there at her fiancé’s grave site, in between Mallory and Ilena, to never text again. She’d need some excuse to read but not reply. She couldn’t tell anyone, she couldn’t stand the way they’d all look at her if they knew she’d killed her fiancé.
9
Ilena
Friday Afternoon
One DayAfterthe Outing
A stuffed giraffe. Two BabyBjörns. A running stroller overflowing with diapers. Ilena’s office could double as a baby boutique. From the stack of cards and Polaroids on her desk, she gathers that AIM hosted a baby shower recently. For her and Felix. And apparently, Ilena was the life of the party.
Blindfolded playing pin-the-sperm-on-the-egg.
How mortifying.
In a chair, spinning a baby bottle on the conference table around which a dozen AIM employees are sitting.
Can you say “lawsuit”?
Cheering Felix on as he winds his way through some sort of diaper obstacle course.
No one at AIM will ever take them seriously again.
This Ilena must not have gone to Harvard, she thinks, channeling her snob of a mother. She rotates in her chair, and, well, that theory’s blown as her Harvard undergrad degree hangs on the wall. She squints. Bingo: no cum laude, let alone magna.
Ilena shoves the cards and photos in a drawer and places anursing pillow underneath her, hoping to ease the pain in her lower back, knowing she won’t erase its horrific cause: Grayson. It could also be from the honeydew in her stomach, but if she attributes it to Grayson, it remains Mallory’s fault. Though the honeydew’s technically Mallory’s doing too—she came up with the twisted spin on the game that somehow led them here.
Wherever here is. This place... this place where a man she worked with is dead, where, in agreeing to conceal it, she once again made a choice that went against her every belief, where she let Mallory’s decisions dictate her own.
Except, if she were being honest, not calling the police wasn’t solely for Mallory’s sake. Ilena has more to take into consideration than just Mallory.
Ilena rests her hand on her stomach, wondering how far along she is. Six months, maybe seven, she’s guessing from the size and the persistent kicking. It’s weirder than she imagined, though in truth, Ilena’s always been more focused on the getting pregnant than being pregnant—something that’s not going to change despite the soccer player inside her stomach. This isn’t real. She’ll be back to her actual life soon, and Grayson will be alive, and Mallory won’t be a murderer, and she...
She won’t be about to become a mother. She removes her hand from her stomach. The baby kicks as if calling her back, but she keeps her hands flat on her desk.
