She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. It was true she had passed him on her way to her office in the mornings, but that was just her normal route out of the neighborhood.
“I’m n-not,” she stammered. “That’s just a coincidence.”
Jo was beside him now, her mouth a thin slash of bright red. “What is going on? Are you stalking my husband?”
“No, I’m not!” Tori glanced to her left at a group of three blond women in their sixties openly gawking at them. She needed to get out of here. Her breath was shallow, and she was scared she might have a panic attack. She began to maneuver the stroller, but the wife stepped in front of her.
“I know everything,” she said. “What you tried to do. Daniel told me how he came over to help you and you threw yourself at him. Pathetic.” Jo wrapped a manicured hand around her husband’s bicep. She leaned close to Tori and said in a low voice, “I feel sorry for you. I really do. Going after other women’s husbands? If I knew what kind of woman you were, I would never have rented to you. If you have any issue with the house, contact me. Not Daniel. Got it? He is off-limits to you.”
Tori yanked the stroller around, accidentally banging one of the blond women’s shins. The woman howled in pain, and Leo let out a cry of alarm. Tori rushed away, ignoring the chaos, sweaty and hot with embarrassment, through the crowds and off the cathedral grounds. She hurried back to her car and strapped in a now-wailing Leo. Tori trembled as she climbed into the driver’s seat, feeling smaller and stupider than she ever had in her life. Rationally, she knew her rushing out of there was over the top.
Yet she felt naked and humiliated, as if they had seen through her façade of being a good mother and successful professional, straight to the awful truth. She was trash. Worthless. “You’re not fooling anyone,” her mother had said when Tori told her the news that shehad been admitted to a small college in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. “You’re not better’n the rest of us. Don’t forget that.”
It didn’t matter that she had a college degree, a beautiful son, a nice wardrobe, a good job. There was some kind of stain on her that people could see.
FIFTEEN
The light slices between the curtains from high in the sky, bright and unforgiving. It casts long, slanted beams across the comforter, illuminating the dust motes suspended in the still air. My body hums with heaviness.
I never sleep past six thirty—I can’t, even when I want to—but when I swipe my phone from the nightstand, the numbers glare back at me: 9:54. A heavy cloak of exhaustion seems to pin me to the bed.
They said fatigue would be a side effect of the concussion, but sleeping in this late feels like another chunk of me has been chipped off. A subtle unraveling. Another way I’m no longer myself.
I stay in bed for a moment, not because it’s warm or comforting, but because the alternative, getting up, requires purpose. And I have none. Without work, and Rachel, anchoring me to daily routines, I am left floating. The silence of the room is oppressive. This lethargy reminds me of what happened to my dad after he retired. He drifted like a ghost in his ownhouse, unshaven and bleary-eyed, until my parents moved to Florida, where he joined the condo board. It was only then that he regained some sense of identity.
As I head down the stairs, I hear the faint clink of dishes. Miguel.
“You’re still here,” I say as I enter the kitchen. The floor is cool beneath my bare feet, a little gritty. It needs a good mopping, but even the thought of it exhausts me. I cinch my robe belt tight, trying to gather myself into something solid.
“Yeah, not going until noon,” he says. His voice is annoyingly upbeat. “Staying late at the office so I can go straight to the airport.”
“The airport?”
“Yeah. Rachel’s coming back tonight. Did you forget?”
“No. Of course not.” But I had forgotten. What is happening to me? “I just got confused.” I move toward the coffee machine like a sleepwalker. My thoughts feel wrapped in gauze.
“I’m glad you slept in,” he says gently. “But remember you don’t want to resttoomuch.”
“Please, Miguel. I just need coffee.”
“Sit down—I’ll get it. You excited?” He grabs a mug and fills it. “She’ll be too late for dinner, but we could take her out for sushi tomorrow.”
He looks up and winks. It’s a long-running family joke how much I hate sushi. Always have. Raw fish triggers my gag reflex. But it’s Rachel’s favorite, and she loves to rib me about it, laughing at mychicken teriyaki like a six-year-oldorder. “Sounds delish,” I say.
“Breakfast first.” He hands me my coffee. “How about cantaloupe and raisin toast?”
“You’re spoiling me.” I force a light tone, leaning back as he puts a bowl of cut melon in front of me. The cantaloupe smells sweet and overripe, and the toast is still warm, studded with raisins, the butter already melting into the bread. “I might get used to this.”
His smile dims, just slightly. “Have you remembered anything else about Saturday night?”
I shake my head. “No. But I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. I think, and hear me out, I really do think that someone slipped something in my drink.”
I wait. Watch him. Measure the pause.
“Go on,” he says carefully.
“I didn’t have enough to drink to black out. And I didn’t take an Ambien, no matter what you think.” I meet his eyes. “If my drink was spiked, it explains why I passed out walking home.”
