One day she was working on the ROTC section of the yearbook, sorting through photos of the military ball—and there was Cary, standing tall in his dress uniform next to some chubby girl in a shiny formal. Apparently the girl lived in their neighborhood. She went to parochial school. Her name was Angie.
To this day, Shiloh didn’t know when Cary had started dating Angie. Only that they’d broken up sometime before graduation.
Shiloh had started to cry when she saw the photo—thephotos,there were a dozen of them.
It wasn’t because Cary had a girlfriend. (He was allowed to have a girlfriend.)
It was that he hadn’ttoldher. It was thatnobodyhad told her. Mikey obviously knew—he was the photographer.
When she’d stopped crying, Shiloh chose the nicest shot, where Cary’s date looked the prettiest, and made it the biggest photo on the yearbook page. Cary was their school’s commanding officer, and he’d gotten some award at the military ball. It made sense to feature him.
Shiloh hadn’t dated anyone during high school—but she wouldn’t have kept it a secret from Cary and Mikey if she had.
Cary cleared his throat. “So, you do what at the theater now?”
“I run the educational department,” Shiloh said. Still thinking about Janine and Angie. “We offer classes—acting, playwriting.”
“And do you act?”
“No,” she said, like that was a silly question. Like she didn’t have a master’s degree in theater. “I mean, sometimes, in emergencies. We have a main stage with professional actors.”
Cary was nodding a little too quickly. As if he were acknowledging twice as many things as Shiloh was saying.
“I don’t even teach much anymore,” she said. “It’s a lot of bureaucracy. I sit at a desk all day.” That wasn’t exactly true, but Shiloh felt likeshe needed to makeexplicitlyclear to him that she was nothing he had ever expected her to be.
If Cary was combing Shiloh for sames and differents, he should see that she waswhollydifferent. That her final form was nothing like her larval stage. And not in the good, butterfly way.
“You live out west?” he asked.
“I used to live out west.” In the suburbs they grew up hating. “I live here now. I mean, in the neighborhood—with my mom, actually.” Shiloh tried not to wince as she said this.
Cary looked genuinely surprised.
It took all of Shiloh’s strength not to bow her head. She smiled. “In the same old house.”
Cary looked bewildered. “By the park?”
“By the park.”
When Shiloh and Ryan had separated, they couldn’t afford to keep their house out west—Ryan was a high school drama teacher—and their home equity didn’t amount to anything once it was split between them.
Shiloh’s mom had been wanting to work fewer hours, but she was already struggling to pay her mortgage. It made sense for her and Shiloh to pool their resources.
So now Shiloh’s kids were living in the same old crappy house where Shiloh had grown up. She’d tried to make itlesscrappy... (Another mortgage. They’d gutted the kitchen. Added a bathroom to her mom’s room. Replaced some of the wiring.) But it was still the same house. The same neighborhood.
Shiloh was the same in all the ways she was supposed to be different. (And vice versa. Vice, vice versa.) And Cary might be the only person on earth, other than Shiloh, who could fully appreciate what a disappointment she was.
Because Cary had sat outside that very housewith her while they plotted their mutually exclusive ways out.
Look at me,Shiloh thought now.Really look at me.
I’ve been thinking about seeing you for months. Now look at me, see me. Get this over with.
“So, you’re—” Cary was frowning at her. “I mean, I heard that, um—”
“Heyyy, everybody.” Someone was standing at the microphone on the dance floor. Mikey’s little brother, Bobby. “Whazzuuuhhp.”
He was holding a mixed drink in one hand and bracing himself against the mic stand with the other. It tilted.
