Lucille was his secretary.
Ten years younger.
Polished in a way I had not been since the first baby spit up on my favorite blouse.
Ryan watched my face break.
Then he looked at my body.
“Understand this, Maggie. You’re not the woman I married. You used to be slim. Now you’re just not attractive enough for me anymore.”
“You used to be slim.”
He said it like he was explaining a bill.
***
After he left, he brought Lucille everywhere.
Restaurants. Work events. His cousin’s birthday. Even to his mother’s house.
“Lucille used to model,” he told people.
Always loudly.
Always close enough for me to hear.
He brought Lucille everywhere.
So when Elaine, Ryan’s mother, invited me and the kids to her annual Fourth of July pool party, I said no.
“Maggie,” she told me, “you’re still family.”
“Ryan will be there, Elaine.”
“I know.”
“With her.”
A long silence followed.
Then Elaine said, “Don’t let him make you disappear from places where you belong.”
“You’re still family.”
I wanted to believe her.
Instead, I searched for actors online at midnight.
Daniel was the third profile I clicked.
***
On the drive to Elaine’s house, I apologized for everything.
For traffic.
For the air conditioner being too cold.
For my daughter leaving fingerprints on Daniel’s window.
I apologized for everything.
Daniel didn’t point any of it out.
He answered the kids’ questions instead.
Yes, he had been in commercials.
No, he was not famous.
Yes, he had once played a pirate at a dental convention.
He was not famous.
My daughter gasped. “Did you have a sword?”
“A toothbrush,” Daniel said.
The kids howled.
For a few minutes, the car felt light.
Then we turned onto Elaine’s street.
Ryan’s truck was already in the driveway.
Beside it sat Lucille’s white convertible.
My stomach dropped so sharply I almost missed the brake.
Ryan’s truck was already in the driveway.
Daniel noticed.
He didn’t say, “Relax.”
He didn’t say, “You’ve got this.”
He only waited until I parked, then asked, “Ready?”
I wasn’t.
But I took a deep breath.
“Yes.”
I wasn’t.
***
Elaine’s backyard looked exactly the same as it did every July.
The pool flashed blue under the sun.
Red, white, and blue streamers twisted from the fence.
Kids ran barefoot across the grass while someone yelled at them to slow down.
The grill smoked near the patio, and the table was crowded with ribs, deviled eggs, watermelon, and cupcakes with tiny flags stuck in the frosting.
The pool flashed blue under the sun.
For one breath, I almost believed I could survive it.
Then I saw Ryan.
He stood by the grill with one hand on Lucille’s waist.
She wore a red swimsuit under a sheer white cover-up. Her hair fell in perfect waves. She looked cool in the heat, untouched by sweat, motherhood, or humiliation.
I almost believed I could survive it.
