Page 35

35 | Postproduction SASHA

We are reliving the sarong saga. Again. At least, Ethan is. The more he rehashes it, the funnier the story becomes to him. I am lying in my bed next to him, glowering. Grumpy Smurf.

Apparently, now that he knows I like him enough for naked stuff, his ego is less fragile. He is no longer worried about pissing me off. Typical.

Luckily he is an appealing sight. A late-afternoon fairy-tale light glows through the shades, dusting us with happy endings—of all kinds. His brown eyes are lazy, easy, even as they spell mischief. The Demon Dad, the runner, the editor in chief, has gone out of them. He’s just him.

Surrounded by cumulus bedding, his skin looks especially taut and tan. His chest is exposed at the top; one leg pokes out from beneath the comforter. I trace the scar that meanders down his left forearm, taking its time before dead ending at his wrist. When he got it in a skateboarding accident at sixteen, you could see bone. His mother almost threw up, even though she’s a surgeon. These are just some of the things I’ve learned in the past hours, as we swapped stories and fluids. I am getting an Ethan education.

“And you just careened into the water!” He laughs now. “Why didn’t you break your fall? With your hands?!”

I tilt my head and glare at him, pointedly. Because obviously he is about to tell me to keep my hands up. I beat him to the punch, grabbing his hands and pinning them to his chest before he can make the move.

He doesn’t even need to say it. He just dissolves into laughter again, the bed quaking and me quaking with it. Needless to say, I have never seen him lose it like this before, and I would love it more than anything. If it wasn’t at me .

“Maybe it was all a ploy,” I say, releasing his wrists and flipping haughtily onto my back like I’m a noblewoman sleeping with a stable boy. As if I have the upper hand. Which I clearly do not.

He raises an eyebrow. “A ploy to…?”

“Seduce you.”

“That was definitely not necessary.” He rolls over and kisses my bare shoulder, a large hand palming my thigh.

“Well, whatever! I still think the incident with the jellyfish cemented things.”

“Actually, oddly, I don’t usually think of pratfalls as foreplay.”

I grab an extra pillow off the bed, where the duvet is in blissful disarray, and hit him in the head with it. It’s easier to make contact at close range.

“Oh, hell no,” he says. All authority is lost, as his voice is muffled absurdly by the pillow. “You messed with the wrong man!”

He tosses it aside and flips me on my side so he’s pressed up behind me, kissing down my neck and the middle of my back, making me giggle. We are so cute.

He stops, lying on his side, and I roll onto my back. For a moment, I’m overwhelmed by how much I like him. He exhales, maybe having a similar thought, and brushes my hair from my face. “In all seriousness, I would have been on board no matter how many times you tried to save that sarong.”

“Well, I’m about to question my choices if you bring it up again.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises a hand in surrender, then lies back and sighs. “Thank God this finally happened. I was losing my fucking mind.”

This, I like to hear. I roll over to face him now, resting my chin on his chest and tracing the lines of his collarbone with my finger. No perfect T-shirt to cover it up. Now that I get to touch Ethan, I will never stop. Well, at least not today. I push the concept of timelines from my head.

Not today!

“Tell me more about how much you wanted me,” I say.

He shakes his head and smiles.

I have basically had at least one point of contact with Ethan since we absconded, damp and dangerous, from location A (the shower) to location B (my bedroom), and made a mess of location C (my bed). If I thought I liked outdoor showers before, now they’ve eclipsed all other fauceted environments forever. Bathrooms, mudrooms, hammams, kitchens (even the Nancy Meyers kind).

“Honestly, I kind of have that effect on people,” I joke. “Make them lose their minds.”

“I’m sure you do.”

I tip my head onto his shoulder, throw my thigh over his. The thigh without the sting. His skin is warm. His leg flexes under mine.

I might make a map of his muscles. I’m starting to learn his terrain.

I can’t figure out if I forgot how much I like sex, or if it’s never actually been this good before. And I’m contemplating going again as research, when his expression turns earnest. “Seriously, I think this is probably obvious, but”—he glances down, unsure, then back up to meet my eyes—“I’ve liked you since I met you. Even if you don’t remember.”

I shoot him a doubtful look. “Um. That’s a little hard to swallow.”

There I go again. Innuendo o’clock. He opens his mouth to call me out, but I cover it with my hand. He bites my finger lightly. I want to bite him back.

“It’s true!” he says.

“Really? Even at the school merch stand? As I contemplated your demise? And we almost became one of those salacious headlines: ‘Murder by Sweatshirt!’?”

“Especially then. I thought, Now, there’s a pain in the ass… with a really nice ass .”

I swat him again. “Takes one to know one.” I pinch his firm butt. He nudges me, flirty.

“Seriously, though. I even liked you when you yelled at me on the steps outside of school. I was afraid of you. But I liked you. And now I like you even more.”

I have no clue if he’s for real about having liked me way back then, but it sounds nice. I’m flattered, for sure. “If that’s true, why did you go mute the other night on the beach after we… you know?”

“Kissed?” He sighs, then stretches his arms up behind his head, like he’s sunbathing. Fair enough. I am surely emanating heat as I watch him. “I was following your lead. First of all, you also clammed up. And then you shut things down instead of laughing it off or signaling that you wanted more. Plus, earlier you’d been insistent that our dinner wasn’t a date. I wasn’t going to force things.”

“It wasn’t a date! I would never eat a burger that way on a date!”

“Well, that’s just a shame.”

He grins at me. I roll my eyes.

“But also”—he clears his throat, looks away—“I thought maybe you were into Charlie.” He chances a glance at me, like he might still be wondering.

Ah. The idea is absurd. Charlie is a beautiful specimen, but he is so very young. And, anyway, I’ve been too busy trying not to fall for Ethan to notice anyone else. But, as soon as Ethan says it, some puzzle pieces slide into place.

“Wait!” I sit up against my pillow and, as the sheet slips down to my waist, I watch him notice. “Is that why you keep asking if I like working with him? Lord. Men may get older, but they do not get smoother.”

He sits up on his pillow too, dropping his arms. “Excuse me. I resent that. I can be plenty smooth. I saved you from a sarong!”

I look at him sideways. Is that really what happened? We share a sardonic stare.

“No, but seriously. It’s just…” His gaze flits down again, his nervous tell, and his lashes are dark against his cheeks. “I haven’t liked anyone like this in a long time… for some reason.”

Well, that was almost a compliment. “For some reason?”

“Yes. Despite all the obvious issues.”

I prop myself up on my elbow. “What is this? Pride and Prejudice ? What obvious issues? My family isn’t embarrassing. Well, if they are, you don’t know it yet. And I’m definitely as well-bred as you. After all, I’m the one who’s originally from New York.”

“Oh Lord. I’m going to ignore that. No, I mean the other issues.” He counts on his fingers. For the umpteenth time that day, I think, He’s got great hands . “Your terrible running form, your terrible attitude (especially when you think someone snakes something from your kid), the fact that you generally avoid me as much as possible…”

I smile, but, at the same time, I glitch for a second on his finger, which has a subtle tan line from years of wearing a ring. I recognize that particular type of branding. I have it too. An indentation on my finger. Mine is less pronounced. Fewer years married. More years passed.

I love hearing about how much Ethan likes me, of course. Even if it can’t amount to anything because we will have to return to real life soon. Maybe one day I’ll get up the guts to tell him that too—that I haven’t felt this way in a long time either. Maybe ever . The thought makes my chest tighten. But, in that moment, I am reminded that Ethan is also someone’s baggage. For someone else, he is Cliff. More reliable, of course, and a way better dad, a better listener, a more quality human, but still the source of frustration, anger, disappointment. I feel panic rise and settle in my chest. Will he be that for me, too? How do I know he’s not just another shitty father on a good streak?

I exhale, working to calm myself down.

He studies my face with suspicion. “What’s happening here?” he asks, waving a palm to encompass my expression. Perhaps to make it magically disappear. “Something bad just happened in your head.”

“I’m good,” I squeak, pulling the covers up higher over my chest. I close my eyes for a split second, reminding myself of how much better the last two hours have been than most of my last two years (time with my beautiful children aside).

Ethan shoots me a doubtful look. Why does he read me so well? Is this the problem with sleeping with an editor? Is he always going to see my errors? Proofread me? Correct my flaws? Catch my dangling participles?

“To be clear, in case I freaked you out, I was kidding about your issues,” he is saying. “Except for the running thing. That’s real. You should maybe see a coach.” The fact that I don’t roll my eyes or swat him seems to worry him more. His expression grows serious. “For what it’s worth… this, with us, isn’t something I do a lot.”

Wow. Oddly, because I live like a nineteenth-century nun, it hasn’t even occurred to me to wonder about Ethan’s love life beyond his ex. This momentarily diverts my panic away from the word us . Suggests an alternate route on my neural pathways—self-destructive curiosity!

“Wait, do you, like, date?”

He shifts, uncomfortable. Pulls the sheet a little higher on his chest too. “I have… a little.”

“You have a little? So a lot . Tell the truth: Do you actually have a condom in your wallet, after all? ’Cause if you held out on me…”

“I do not.”

“Because you don’t believe in contraception?”

“Because I haven’t been having sex with random strangers.”

“What about less random strangers?”

He shoots me an impatient look.

I let that one go, but I press on—because now I need to know: “Are you, like, on apps?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet ?”

“That isn’t what I meant. That sounded wrong.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “It sure did.”

“I just meant: people—some buddies of mine—have been trying to convince me to use them, but I haven’t. It doesn’t seem like a good fit for me.”

I nod my head like, Yeah, it better not be . I don’t know why, since two minutes ago I was panicking about the possibility of a future with him. A future in which I get hurt. Or he cramps my style.

I am all over the map. No compass in sight. No idea how to use a compass anyway.

What do I want? Do I even know? And can I even have it?

“What about you?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No apps.”

“Have you been set up by friends?”

“Recently? No setups.”

“Have you dated anyone at all since you broke up with Cliff?”

I toggle my head. “I briefly considered marrying my exterminator after the water bug debacle of summer 2022. But we don’t speak of that.”

“Sasha!”

“Ethan!”

He gives me his best Cut the shit look. It reminds me of when I was little and my mom came into my room with an empty marshmallow bag and a knowing look. The marshmallow debacle of summer 1985.

“No,” I admit. “Not really. I dated one guy. For one month. But then he wore the ugliest shoes, and I just couldn’t.”

“Ah.” He nods knowingly. “Well, at least your values are intact.”

“Look. Attraction is attraction, man. And I can’t date a guy in Tevas.”

“Teva actually brought on new creative directors,” he says. “The shoes aren’t terrible.”

I stare at him for a beat. “Oh, okay. My bad. You’re right.” I point my thumb over my shoulder. “You want me to go find that guy I was dating? Give him a second chance?”

“No.” Ethan shakes his head, hands up. “I’m good.” He rolls over and runs a hand down my arm, props his head on his other hand.

“What about your wife?” I say. Just like that, he rolls away from me back onto his back.

“ Ex -wife.”

“Right.”

“Is this when that never-talk-about-an-ex-on-a-date rule kicks in?”

“This is still not a date.”

“What is this, then? An all-hands meeting?”

“Ethan! Does she date? Your ex?”

He sighs. “Kaitlin? Well, I assume you mean aside from the guy she had the affair with?”

Everything stops.

If Ethan continues talking, I don’t know, because there is a roaring in my ears like a conch shell hooked up to an amp. I am dizzy with horror. Did he just say Kaitlin ?

Ethan is repeating my name. “ Sasha. Sasha. Are you okay?”

It finally jolts me out of my k-hole.

“Ethan,” I finally manage, sitting bolt upright. Even the light outside has darkened, the sun ducking behind a cloud. “Your ex-wife is… Kaitlin? Like Kaitlin Lafferty?”

“I mean, technically, she changed her name to Jones when we got married,” he rambles, oblivious, “but she never really used it, and I’m sure she’s not using it now.” Only then does he look at my face. Like really look at it. “Wait. Did you not know that Kaitlin was my ex?”

I drop my head into my hands and shake my head. What the fuck have I done? Am I that mom? How could I have assumed that I could somehow keep this thing with Ethan separate from real life? That there would be no repercussions?

“You really are the world’s worst cyberstalker. Can you even use a computer?” He’s joking, but my mood has changed.

“Sasha, it’s okay,” he says. “It’s not like you guys are close friends.”

“I know,” I mumble into my hands. “But I know her! Or I knew her. A little bit. And she’s a VIM!”

“What’s a VIM?”

“Never mind.”

“So you knew each other as kids—who cares? It’s not like you’re friends now.”

I look up at that. Ethan genuinely appears unconcerned, leaning back against the headboard. He glistens. Not a care in the world.

“You know ? That we know each other from growing up? And you never mentioned anything?”

This is starting to feel like a trend to me. And the dark clouds in my head are moving in like a storm front. He didn’t mention the job opportunity. He didn’t mention that I once had sleepover parties with his ex-wife! What else isn’t he mentioning?

“Honestly, Sasha, I assumed you knew.”

Ethan is not wrong. Like the Escapade editor in chief details, this information was easily accessible. On some level, I chose not to look. But I still feel defensive.

“It’s a big school! I don’t know who belongs to who! I’ve avoided getting too engaged for this exact reason!”

“You were afraid you’d have sex with all the dads?”

I shoot him my best death stare. “No, Ethan,” I say through gritted teeth. “But my divorce from Cliff, his Golden Globes antics, turned really public. Everyone at school knew. It was humiliating! So, I like to keep things separate. Private.”

“Understandable.” He shrugs a shoulder.

“And, by your own account, you were never around. No pick-up. Not even drop-off. How could I have known? It’s not like Kaitlin and I hang out.”

He is shaking his head, confounded. “But, Sasha,” he says quietly. “We met .”

“I know. You said that. But I don’t remember everyone I meet in passing!”

He presses his lips together, clearly bothered. “It wasn’t in passing.”

I am stopped dead in my tracks. Brakes screeching. All aboard the home-wrecker train. “It wasn’t?”

Ethan looks legitimately hurt. His eyes are downcast, and he’s fiddling with a loose string on the comforter’s seam. And that sears a hole in me.

“Ethan. Tell me.”

“You really don’t remember at all?” I shake my head. “The girls, Ruby and Nettie, had a playdate once at the park when they were small. Kaitlin had to leave, so you and I stayed alone together. We met. We talked . For hours. About real things.”

“We talked,” I repeat. To no one in particular. Myself. Ethan. The cheerful yellow lampshade on my bedside table which, in this tense moment, is looking for a reason to excuse itself.

How could I have spaced on talking to this amazing man? Granted, I was a mess in those days. Cliff was disappearing, and I had tunnel vision, trying to navigate caring for the kids on my own. But still. Was this willful denial on my part? Did I not know because I didn’t want to? All those times I never asked Ethan about his daughter, never asked Ruby’s name. Was I avoiding an inconvenient truth? On some unconscious level, had Ethan simply enabled my myopia?

What already felt complicated now seems like a Rubik’s Cube. Perhaps solvable for some, but not for me. Suddenly, I am just so naked under the covers, my skin nervy against the cotton sheets. I pull my bare thigh back underneath.

“I’m just trying to process this,” I say. “It’s not your fault.”

Ethan nods. But, by the way he’s looking at me, I can tell he doesn’t totally understand why this is a big deal, never mind why I forgot him. I get it. It’s not that Kaitlin and I are tight. We’re absolutely not. I know nothing about her, as evidenced by this current shocker. And I knew his wife was a mother at the school. It’s not surprising that I know her a little or have seen her around. But things have just gotten real. I have fallen back down to earth. And, as is my style, I have landed like a sack of potatoes.

“Sasha, I’m sorry you didn’t realize. But this doesn’t have to change anything. This,” he says, referencing the room, the messy bed, the cool-kid condom wrappers, us, “was great. Is great.”

I nod. Fair enough. I concede. It was great.

But that just confounds me more. What seems so good turns sour as soon as it hits the air outside this room.

“Please don’t freak out,” he continues, leaning in, a hand resting on my cheek. “You haven’t betrayed anyone. Kaitlin and I were all wrong. As she clearly demonstrated.”

“By telling you she was unhappy?”

“No. By fucking someone else for like a year.”

“Oh, that. Yeah. Right.”

“But you and I…” He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “I think maybe there’s something that’s really right here. Something—”

Before Ethan can continue, the front door to the villa slams. We both hear it. And, though I can’t be in his body, I think it gets us both in the gut. Winds us. We listen as Stephanie, presumably, kicks off her flip-flops and pads across the living room floor.

“Damn,” he whispers. “Reality.”

“It’s a bitch.” I nod.

It’s not that I’m afraid of being caught. I mean, I don’t want to be outed. But I don’t think that’s what it is for Ethan either. As we look at each other, wordlessly, it’s easy to read the uncertainty in our expressions. What is this thing? What just happened? What does it mean for our actual lives? Anything? And is it going to happen again? Should it not, for all the reasons? And, if so, is it worth the complication?

We are definitely not getting a chance to sort any of that out right now.

“I guess I should go,” Ethan says. But he doesn’t move.

The blanket has slipped lower on his lap, revealing the indentations below his abs. I don’t want this to be the last time I’m privy to that sight. The last time I get to hoard him for myself.

Tomorrow, after the short morning shoot, I fly home. The rest of the staff stays on for one more night to do pick-ups. Tie up loose ends. We arranged it that way, so there was no way I’d miss Halloween.

I didn’t realize the loose ends would be us.

“I wish we had more time,” he says. In some ways, we have all the time in the world. We live in the same neighborhood. Run into each other daily. Bump into each other amid Crispix and tangled earbuds. But I know what he means. More time to figure this out. To concretize it. To make it something or nothing before the number of players expands. Before we go home, get stressed, and most likely pretend this never happened.

The thought makes me so sad. Most of all because it feels impossible.

“Me too,” I sigh.

But it’s time. Not just because Stephanie is back or because we’re due at drinks and dinner soon. But because he’s got his daughter to call. I’ve got my kids to FaceTime. We’ve got work we ignored and text chains we abandoned. News stories to read and photos to post. We’ve got to return to the world. The world, which includes his ex-wife. Kaitlin .

Slowly, surely, he peels back the blanket and climbs out of bed. It feels lighter with him gone in a way I hate. He is backlit against the sheer window shades, the muted sun setting behind him. Despite my guilt and agita, I enjoy the view. Both views.

He wraps a towel around his hips again. Shrugs at me with that small crooked smile, like he’s not sure why he’s bothering to cover up, then crosses to the door connecting our rooms. At the last minute, he reconsiders, turns around, and comes back to my bedside. He leans over me, his breath soft on my face, and kisses me slowly, firmly. For a long time. Like a promise. Now, he takes his time.

I am tempted to pull him back down as it escalates, wrap my arms and legs around him and start from the beginning, but I know I can’t. For so many reasons. Instead, eventually, regretfully , we break apart. He takes a last look at me before he leaves.

“Please don’t freak out,” he says.

It’s so weird to think that he once belonged to someone else. Who was he then? Who was she? Is there a world in which he gets to be mine?

But there’s little time for thought. As he disappears beyond the other side of the connecting door, he takes the languid pace with him. If the clock moved at half speed for the last dreamy hours, now it plays catch-up.

It’s time to get dressed for dinner. Begrudgingly, I get up too, throw on my robe. I “showered” before. But now I have to shower.

As soon as I’m up, there’s a knock at the door. Not the one to Ethan’s sex den (its new name). The main one. To the living room.

“Hello?” Stephanie calls. “Sasha? Are you alive in there?”

Will she see what just happened all over my face?

I walk over and open the door. “Hey, Steph.”

She’s the picture of post-beach day bliss. Her wide-brimmed straw hat is still perched on her head, her hair below it a tangle of saltwater strands, even with the keratin. Her cheeks bear just the slightest hint of pink. She looks relaxed and happy.

Having spent the day swimming and lolling in the sea, she is wearing less makeup than she usually does. And, honestly, it looks better. She’s kind of glowing. I realize, at the sight of her smile, that I really like her.

“She lives!” Stephanie says. “I just wanted to see how you’re feeling.”

How I’m feeling? I don’t know. The best and worst I’ve felt in ages! The most I’ve felt in years. I look at her in confusion. How does she know?

“Post-sting,” she clarifies.

The sting. Right . So much has happened since then. My jellyfish beef seems like the least of the issue.

“Aw, thanks.” I smile back. “It’s not bad at all. The doctor came and gave me some meds, and now I barely know it’s there.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Good meds?”

“How do you feel about ointment?”

“Not great.”

“Not good meds, then.”

“Ahh.” She shrugs. “Well, I’m glad you’re better but so bummed that you missed the afternoon!”

“Me too!” I smile-frown. “I’m so sorry I messed up the shot when I fell, by the way. That probably wasn’t exactly what you envisioned.”

“Oh.” She crinkles her brow, shakes her head. “Don’t even go there! You didn’t ruin the shot at all. We already had everything we needed.”

Phew . The reality is I’m working for Stephanie too. I need her to be pleased. Also, it’s nice to feel like less of a loser. Even if she’s just being kind.

“Where’s Ethan?” she asks.

“Ethan?!” I say, like I’ve never heard of him. Ethan? Condom? Wife?

“Yeah. You know the guy. Tall. Handsome. Has more rules than a casino.”

“Ah. That Ethan.” As the world’s worst liar, I decide it’s safest to tell some version of the truth. “He waited until the doctor came and then went to catch up on some stuff.”

She leans against the doorframe. “Ah, damn. I thought you might get some time alone together.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“Alone? Together?” I tighten my robe around my waist, a jolt of panic strumming through me.

“Yeah, alone together . I mean, it seems like you guys are a chemistry set, if you know what I mean. He obviously digs you. I’ve been trying to give you some space .” She extends the last word for effect.

I am completely thrown. My words are lost. Have we really been that obvious?

“Y-you have?” I manage. “Like, that’s why you stayed out last night?”

She shrugs. “In part.”

“But… he’s a coworker.”

“Eh. Sort of.”

“But this is work.”

Stephanie takes off her hat, shakes out her hair. “Look, I care about Ethan, and I like you. It seems like you both could use a little… fun. The rest will work itself out. It always does.”

“Right.” I wish I could be so confident.

I almost want to tell her what happened, to reward her hard work. Her heart is clearly in the right place (between our legs?). But I know I can’t.

She shrugs, throwing up her hands. “Oh well! You can lead a horse to water, but… you can’t make it bone. I should go change. I might check out that outdoor shower! Have you tried it?”

I grunt noncommittally and shut the door before she can see me flush from forehead to toes.

Just before it clicks shut, she calls out: “Oh, by the way, have you peeped tomorrow’s weather? Looks nasty!”

My heart drops.

Damn . That’s not even an option on my radar. Bad weather is going to ruin tomorrow morning’s final shoot. Man, when it rains, it pours. Literally. I grab my phone off the bedside table, where Ethan’s water glass still sits as a reminder of our hours together—mostly of how much he hydrates—and launch the weather app.

Stephanie is right. The forecast predicts thunderstorms from 8:00 a.m. through most of the day. This is the Caribbean, of course, which means the weather is changeable. It could be fine, but this does not look good.

Right away, I go into producer mode, considering contingencies. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to improvise in bad weather. I once ran a shoot in the Bahamas where I made the crew wrap cameras in plastic bags to protect them from rain and pitch glamping tents to keep out the wind. I spent the whole day terrified that, at any moment, tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment would be destroyed on my watch. Not an experience I want to revisit.

But that won’t work here, even if I could survive that stress again. Not unless Charlie doesn’t mind changing up the whole aesthetic of his spread. The final shoot is right here on the beach, and it’s meant to look placid and clear, in keeping with the rest of the images from the trip—sunshine for days. He intended this for the lede.

Which means the shoot has to push until the weather improves. Which means I have a problem. Because I need to get home by tomorrow evening or I will miss Halloween. I already know there’s no early enough flight out the following day.

My chest is tight. I’m working hard not to envision the look on Bart’s and Nettie’s faces if I don’t make it back. His wobbly chin. Her watery eyes. And, even though I know it’s irrational, it’s hard for me not to feel like this is karmic. Like this is what I get for giving in to the pull I feel toward Ethan. For making the irresponsible choice and indulging my base impulses. This is what I get for taking my eye off the ball.

Ever since Cliff left, I have put every ounce of energy I could muster into being as good a mother as I can be. That’s why the constant screwups and blunders at school have been so maddening. Because, with the carnage of my marriage, I feel like I have already given my kids an extra hill to climb. I won’t let it become a mountain.

But now I’m on what, if I’m honest, has felt a lot like a vacation. I’ve left them at home while I went off to pursue an opportunity that, if I’m real, I have just jeopardized. No. That’s the wrong word. I have just obliterated. I can’t work for Ethan now !

I text Celeste.

Fuck.

Is that a good fuck or a bad fuck?

It’s an I’m-worried-I-could-get-stuck-here fuck.

Oh. Fuck.

There’s a pause. A few seconds pass. Then she writes:

Hey, it will be okay. I’m obviously taking Henry trick-or-treating. The kids can always stay one more night.

She is a lifesaver. Thank God for her. She’s doing her best. But something is up with her too. I can’t ignore the fact that she just said “I” instead of “we.” Where is Jamie?

I can’t take advantage. And, I know in that instant, there is no way I’m doing that to my kids or to her.

You know what? I’ll be there. No matter what.

Are you sure? Work is work. You know I get that.

I’m sure. I’ll be there. With zombie makeup on. Good chance I might not need the makeup.

Hey! Zombie Mom is my costume. Don’t steal my thunder.

Twins! Anyway, I’m flying home tomorrow come hell or high water.

It’s a bird. It’s a plane…

It’s a train wreck.