Page 42

42 | Rabbit Holes KAITLIN

I saw Sasha on Halloween. Huddled with Celeste. I saw her tiny tan, a dash of color in her cheeks. I saw the two women hug like they’re—Just. So. Close. (Lisa reports that there is trouble in paradise for Celeste. She is a good lieutenant despite her constant Target plugs.) I saw their kids sitting dead center on the sidewalk, blocking street traffic like their needs trump everyone else’s.

I saw Sasha at drop-off. Distracted. At pick-up, looking disheveled in a faded sweatshirt and sweatpants, her ponytail askew. A smile beaming from her face. Looking disgustingly refreshed. Invigorated.

She rushed past me even faster than usual.

I got what should have been my fix, but hating her has suddenly become boring too.

There is a dullness to my days. A gauzy film over my worldview.

Sasha is back. My ex-husband is back. I should be back too.

But I am no further from the edge.

Solo parenting can be a slog. Even with an eight-year-old. Ruby doesn’t need me to change her diapers anymore, but now she demands my focus in other ways. Her friends are fickle. Her teacher is unfair. Her after-school program is too long or too short or too babyish.

She wants me to engage. To be her sounding board. To remain attentive. The only option in the house. But I don’t have it right now. The iPad is my babysitter. My phone is my frenemy.

So, when Ethan comes back from his trip and picks up Ruby, I am ready for a break. But then I only use the time to stare at Instagram and wait for nothing to happen. I stay up until almost 2:00 a.m. going down a rabbit hole: a girl I knew from college became an influencer, got a Hollywood tune-up, and wrote a new decluttering book. Pictures of her at her Malibu house. Pictures of her wearing perfect neutrals. Pictures of her at her Hamptons book party, hosted by some socialite friend. Pictures of her appearance on Good Morning America . Pictures of her looking thrilled to be emaciated in one of those bikinis that shows under boob. “Compare and despair,” she reminds us in one post about her “authentic truth”—in which she wears a scarf and looks out at the ocean.

Once, she was unremarkable. Once, even schlumpy. Once, she wore the same tie-dye sweatshirt for two weeks straight. My friends and I started counting the days.

But who can’t be bothered to wash her sweatshirt now? What became of me?

Even when Sasha shows up wearing a crappy sweatshirt, of course, she somehow looks cool. I’m the worse divorced mom. Not even the good one.

I used to trace it all back to the beginning, like I was doomed to fail. Like retracing my steps back to Hugo, rekindling things with him, might help me find myself. Like, if I reconnected with my past, I could start over from scratch.

That failed, spectacularly. It upended my life. And maybe that was the point.

And I am thinking of this, while taking one last scroll through my newsfeed, when I am startled by a picture… of Sasha.

I sit up from my pillow. What’s this? A unicorn?

But then I realize it’s not on her account. It’s on the Escapade account. I flash back to her post of the drink. And my brain explodes.

I am back.