Page 46

46 | He’s Going Down SASHA

I am shaken.

How can I think about anything but what happened at the festival? Ever again?

When we return home, I escape to my room and sit on my bed, trying to make sense of the past few weeks. I put my head in my hands and let myself cry for two whole minutes before wiping my face clean of evidence and cooking up kale chips and organic chicken fingers. Because if they’re organic, they’re healthy, and I’m a good mom. Hussy or no.

Don’t you dare tell me different.

For the rest of the rainy weekend, I am barely in my body, moving blindly through games of Sleeping Queens and UNO. I look up twice and realize I’ve lost. I am going through the motions.

Kaitlin imploded. And it was disturbing. My insides are roiling now too.

Why? Well, for one thing, now Ethan and I feel like an impossibility. Things have just become exponentially complicated and public. Everything I try to avoid. And, somehow, even though I haven’t known him long, I really miss him. A lot .

It’s hard for me to imagine life without him, even though I never had it with him.

I catch myself wondering what he’s doing. I picture him in his reading glasses, staring intently into space while he considers how to word something. I picture him reading with Ruby. He said they just started The Hobbit . I picture him picturing me.

When I call to cancel my babysitter, since the non-date has become a nonstarter, the disappointment steals my breath. Like it’s happening all over again.

I brace myself against the kitchen counter. I’m just sad.

I really thought this could be something.

And I’m wondering how long it will be before Ethan stops being the first thing I think of in the morning and the last thing at night.

For reasons I can’t quite assimilate, I am also consumed with thinking about the other men in my past—ones who I thought were excited about me but who were actually excited about how we presented together. Josh, Cliff, others. Is that how a young Ethan felt about a young Kaitlin? Did they mistake a pretty picture for love? He said he used to care about those things—flashy parties, flashing lights. Image. Things my ex-husband prizes above even our children. Has that truly changed, or will Ethan regress? Where had things gone wrong? What drove Kaitlin to this brink? Because she didn’t get there alone.

I think about the way Kaitlin saw me when we were teens. The way I made sure they all saw me. The way she sees me now.

Who I was. Who I am. The truth versus an idea.

How long have I been erecting walls to keep the world out? How much can we actually protect ourselves? To what extent does that have value?

I think mostly about their daughter, Ruby.

As an eight-year-old kid, what does she see and understand? Can she sense the unsettlement? Does the road feel bumpy or like every day? From how much can we really protect our kids? From how much should we?

I have spent a good deal of my time as a mother poised to shield Bart and Nettie from anything hurtful that comes their way, to be two parents at once for them, always present and available. I want them so badly to be happy, unscathed. But it occurs to me now, thinking about Ethan and Kaitlin and Jamie and Celeste, that even with two parents, you are not guaranteed such things. And maybe you shouldn’t be. Maybe everyone needs a chance to be a person in order to be a parent. Maybe things never quite turn out as planned. Maybe that’s okay.

And maybe, I am willing to admit, Ethan understood that better than I did when he suggested I skip Halloween. Maybe, thanks to the less pronounced pressures of being a dad versus a mom, he understood that being there isn’t better than being happy, even if that means you’re there a little less.

Definitely, Kaitlin needs a break. A real one. Maybe we’re all just steps away from spiraling into that state.

On Monday morning, the video editor sends me a rough cut of the footage. Peter has done a spectacular job. His aversion to flying and people be damned. The reel is beautiful and funny and cool and, obviously I’m biased, but it definitely makes me want to frolic through Citrine Cay. They even managed to crop out my jellyfish sting. (There is a God. And that deity is a benevolent digital editor.)

Still, it’s all a fantasy. That’s what’s enticing. The hotel is beautiful and unusual and otherworldly. The food is fresh and bright; the service is impeccable. There are no words for the softness of the sand or bumping into a stingray like a next door neighbor.

But the owner is a terrible person. And, as good as I feel about how the footage came out, I don’t feel great about us giving him a pass. Do any of the rest of them care? Ethan? Derek? Jackie? Charlie? Certainly not Stephanie, who was still interested in hitting that. What is our responsibility to the world with regard to this man? And how much is it worth now that I know jobs hang in the balance?

On Monday evening, my mother calls. On FaceTime, of course. I am happy to see her face, but I feel an immediate pang of worry. My stomach tilts.

“I wanted to tell you, I sent you a text confirming Tuesday-night dinner with the kids at your place.”

The whole point of a text is not having to call, but I don’t even rib her about it. I’m worried that whatever is messing with her memory may also have done away with her sense of humor. It has certainly hampered mine.

I pull myself together to have my parents over for dinner on Tuesday. And, as planned, they show up. It’s taco night! Which basically means I mix a packet of powdered orange MSG with ground beef, throw a bunch of toppings on the table and everyone goes to town. Old-school. Back to when preservatives were wholesome, dammit!

My mom stands beside me as sous chef, ostensibly helping to prepare the bowls full of tomatoes, onions, cheese, beans and such. But really she is just drinking a glass of red wine and inhaling an entire jumbo bag of organic tortilla chips.

Larry the cat stands beside her, pleading with his eyes. The injustice of her stuffing her face while he starves! That cat loves a chip.

“Mom.” I smile. “You wanna leave a few of those for the kids?”

“Oh, sorry!” she says, stuffing another in her face. “Just ravenous lately.”

I am trying to be gentle with her, not force things. After this evening, I plan to reach out to my dad separately to discuss her confusion. The things she forgets. The sweatpants.

It’s time.

She is wearing them again, which, considering that my mom once informed me in no uncertain terms that yoga pants were not, in fact, pants, also feels like cause for concern.

What. Is. Happening?

After dinner, while the kids watch Junior Bake Off in the living room, there is a moment of calm. I am somewhat lulled by the sound of the TV: British children cooking “sponge” in the adjoining room. And by my father’s occasional exclamations of “I love sticky toffee pudding!” and “Scrummy!”

I have taken a load off and am sitting at the kitchen table with my feet up on a nearby modernist chair.

“So,” my mother says, settling beside me. “Should we talk about me losing it?”

My mother. Always with the subtlety.

“Yes, let’s.”

I drop my legs down and turn to face her. “So—what’s new?”

She shrugs. “I mean, not much. Did I tell you we got a new toaster oven?”

I can’t help but laugh. “Mom! I mean, has anything changed in your day-to-day that you think could have triggered a change in you?”

“You mean beyond getting old?” She frowns.

I smile at her. Tip my head onto her shoulder. She gives me a squeeze.

“You’re not old, Mom,” I say. “You’re vintage couture.”

She raises an eyebrow. Shoots me a look that I recognize from the mirror. “That’s just another word for ‘used.’?”

“Yes. But a fancy word!”

Suddenly, her brow furrows. She looks distracted and stressed. She reaches over to the counter, grabs her black purse and sets it in front of her like she’s about to dissect it. She unzips it and begins to rifle through. I have never seen so many pockets.

“What are you looking for?”

Instead of answering me, she begins muttering to herself. “Was it in the outside pocket? I could have sworn I put them in this left side pouch. Lord. I hope I didn’t lose them again!”

“Mom. Lose what?”

Keys? Wallet? Obviously something essential.

“Aha!” she exclaims, startling me. She is holding a container of white Tic Tacs above her head like a championship belt. “There they are. Want one?”

Who is this woman? One minute she seems like my mother. A literacy advocate. Well-dressed. Haughty to a fault. The next she seems childlike, unhinged.

I shake my head.

“Suit yourself.” She pops four in her mouth, as she points to a dish on my counter. “Can you grab that dark chocolate, too? It’s a great combo.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Whatever is causing her mental shift is definitely messing with my mind too. A wave of nausea passes over me as I sit and stare at this stranger.

“Sasha! The chocolate!”

Right. I grab the bar and hand it to her; she rips into it. Emotional eating in style.

“Okay!” I say, with inappropriate gusto as I sit back down. “So, changes?”

But she is back in her bag, for the love of God. “I need my glasses.” She starts taking objects out and placing them on the table. Pauses. “What am I looking for again?”

“Mom!” I say, unable to contain my anxiety. “Your glasses!”

“Oh, right.”

How bad is this? I am beginning to envision the worst. Strings of doctor’s visits, waning abilities, her forgetting my kids’ names. My dad’s broken heart. Me, a spinster, eating pasta with my parents at the assisted-living facility buffet. Where the marinara sauce is V8.

It’s at moments like this that I wish I had a sibling.

“Let me,” I say. I drag her bag over and plunge into its depths, excavating for her glasses. And that’s when I notice. And stop dead in my tracks.

“Mom,” I say, holding up a blue pill bottle. “What is this ?”

She scrunches her nose. “That? Oh, it’s nothing. Just the new medicine I’m taking for my neck.”

There is a giant pot leaf insignia on the label. I dig inside her bag and find two more bottles.

I look at them. At her. Then back at them again. My mouth drops open.

“Mom,” I say. “What doctor prescribed these to you?”

“I told you! Carol’s guy.”

“Carol’s doctor?”

“No. I don’t think he’s a doctor exactly. Just a guy.”

“A guy with what credentials?”

“I don’t know,” she says, as if my questions are beside the point. “I only messaged with him online using some special app. Then he delivered the medicine.”

“An encrypted app?”

“Maybe?” She shrugs, her gray bob brushing her shoulders.

I stare at her in disbelief. Then I begin to read the labels. There are two capsules and a tincture.

“Mom,” I say. “Do you know that this is cannabis?”

She waves me off. “It’s only CBD.”

“It literally says THC right here!”

“What’s THC?”

“Mom! It’s pot.”

“Right,” she agrees. “But it’s the marijuana with no psychotropic effects. It doesn’t mess with your head.”

I beg to differ.

“Mom,” I say, with a patience that should earn me a Nobel Peace Prize nomination. “THC absolutely affects your mental state.”

Her brow crinkles. “Are you sure? That’s not what Carol said. Or Carol’s guy.”

“Well, Carol’s guy is literally a drug dealer, so.”

She looks at me in surprise, then begins to slowly nod.

“Huh. He did deliver the medication on his bike. But how convenient! Truly, you can get anything delivered in New York.”

We are getting sidetracked. “Mom, how much of this are you taking a day?”

“Two capsules in the morning and two in the afternoon. And then some of the tincture at bedtime.”

My eyes are popping out of my head. My hands are in fists. “Mom! You’re taking twenty milligrams of THC twice a day, plus whatever this tincture is.”

“Is that a lot?” she asks, stuffing chocolate squares in her mouth.

I cover my eyes with my palms, then look back up at her. “Mom. You’re not losing your memory! You’re high as a fucking kite!”

“High?” she says. She shakes her head. Purses her lips. “I don’t think so.”

“Mom, you’re stoned! Doped up. Full Pineapple Express . Look! You literally have the munchies.”

“No.” She shakes her head. Stops. Looks down at the chocolate and Tic Tacs in her hand. At her elastic waistband. She sets the chocolate down. “Oh.”

“Well, this explains the sweatpants. I thought you were falling into a depression!”

“No! Not at all. Just none of my other pants fit me!”

At once, my mom and I both look down at her waistband then up into each other’s faces and dissolve into giggles. Full tears stream down my face.

I am so relieved. My mother is the third member of Cheech & Chong! Hallelujah!

It’s as if an anvil has been lifted off my shoulders and I am now floating in the air, a helium balloon set free. (But not in a way that’s bad for the planet.) My mother is not losing it. We get to keep her!

It makes everything that’s been depressing me feel less heavy.

We laugh long and hard to the point where my dad gets curious about what’s happened. He rises from the couch and crosses over to the table.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Mom is a pothead,” I say. “She’s applying to be the new editor of High Times .”

“Really?” he says with genuine interest. “I haven’t seen her smoke dope since the sixties.”

And we start laughing again. I am in bliss.

After my mom promises to stop her massive daytime weed intake, I make tea, sit at the table with my parents and tell them all about my trip to Citrine Cay. About the stingray and the food and the tiny plane. About the shoots and even my jellyfish sting, though I leave out the racier and romantic details.

My mom looks at me thoughtfully. “Sounds like an incredible trip and like it could be an incredible job.”

“I’m not sure.” I frown. “It’s a long story, but I think I might have hurt my chances.”

“Why don’t you talk to this Ethan person about it? Since he’s also a parent at the school? Make sure he knows you want the position. He let you do your thing without intervening at all, even though his job is tenuous. He gave you a shot. It sounds like he trusts you.”

She’s right, I realize. He did trust me. He took a risk. Put my career aspirations on par with his. But, now, I’m not so sure. With all the complications, how can we trust each other? I know he was wrong in not telling me more, about the job opportunity, about his ex-wife. But I have to admit, if I’m honest with myself, he was mostly afraid of scaring me off. And he’s not wrong. I do scare easily.

Thinking of him standing all alone in the schoolyard at the Harvest Festival after Kaitlin’s meltdown, I am suddenly hit by a tsunami of regret. It steals my breath.

It’s not that I think I did the wrong thing. I haven’t heard from him, so I guess he’s given up too. I just hate how it’s all turned out. My heart is broken—for everyone involved.

Later, as they’re leaving, my mom thanks me.

“It was nothing, Snoop,” I say.

She smiles, though she surely has no idea what I mean, and lays a hand on my shoulder.

“You know, when I was worried I was losing my memory, I kept thinking, at least I have you and your dad. At least I’m not by myself.”

“True.” I am too happy that she’s healthy to even be annoyed by the obvious implications. This is a huge weight off my shoulders, at least for now. Still, the lesson remains: life is short.

“I know you don’t want to do those dating apps. I understand. It sounds like torture. But, the truth is, I worry about you being alone.”

Same, woman. Same. But I worry about losing my autonomy too.

“I will try to remedy that,” I say. But we both know it’s an empty promise. I just came as close as I had in years, and where did that land me?

I am getting it from all sides. When I go into Nettie’s room to tell her it’s time to stop reading and go to sleep, she tells me she wants to do “true secrets.” This is what we call sharing without fear of consequences or judgment.

“How do you know if you have a crush?” she asks, toying with the corner of her batiked duvet.

This is not what I was expecting. Usually, it’s about how she argued with a friend at school or Bart stole candy without permission. (Like mother, like son.)

“Oh, well. I guess you just want to be around the person as much as possible. And maybe you get butterflies when they’re around, like you’re extra nervous or excited.”

“Yup. Yup.” She diagnoses herself. “I’ve got a crush.” She groans, grabbing her giant penguin stuffy to cover her face.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“No comment!”

“Is it Henry?”

“What?!” she tosses the stuffed animal to the side and sits up straight in abject horror. “Henry is my friend? !”

“Okay! Understood!” I hold my hands up in surrender. “Sometimes you can like someone in that way but also have them be a friend. Sometimes that’s the best-case scenario.”

Nettie lies back down and considers this. Her face is aglow, the moon to her pink reading light’s sun. “Are you friends with Ruby’s dad?”

I am not expecting this. I shift my position on her bed, buying time. On-the-fly parenting is not my strong suit.

Am I? I didn’t act like it.

“Um,” I say, scratching my neck, fidgeting. “Sort of? We work together.”

That feels like the safe answer.

She nods and I cringe, wondering how much she overheard and understood at the Harvest Festival entrance. “I think he’s handsome,” she says. But then she scrunches up her nose. “For a dad.”

Oh, boy. “Go to bed, kid!” I give her a thousand kisses, and she giggles like she did when she was five.

As I’m leaving, she calls out, “Don’t tell Bart!”

“About what?”

“Mom! My crush!”

“Oh. Scout’s honor,” I say. “Not that he would understand.”

“I think Bart has a crush on Elmo.”

We both laugh.

Later, after my parents have left and the kids are done making excuses to pop out of bed, I know my job is officially done. The evening extends in front of me like a curse and a gift. My head is cluttered with debris.

I walk over to my mom’s confiscated meds sitting on the counter, unscrew one cap and pop a capsule in my mouth. Life is complicated. Why should she have all the fun?

Celeste is at drop-off the next morning. I think I spot Ethan too, but as a retreating speck in the distance. I don’t know what I’d say if I saw him anyway. But I guess I’m checking my corners. At least that’s what I tell myself.

I haven’t seen Kaitlin at school since the weekend. Not even at the bake sale booth or selling tickets to the winter carnival. Next week is Ugly Sweater Day and I actually received two fliers and an email reminder. I am back in the loop. As Bart and Nettie enter the schoolyard, I wave to the school administrator.

“Hi, Ms. Maureen,” I say.

“Hi, Sasha. Have a good day!”

I am all excited to report about my drug-addled mother, but, in fact, it is Celeste who has the most important information to share.

Jamie has hung up his axe.

“He’s home?!” I say. “That’s great. Right? Is that great?”

She toggles her head as we wave to the crossing guard and start uphill past the charming brownstones on Sherman, toward the main commercial drag on Prospect Park West. She is headed to the F train for work. I’m headed to grab coffee and get home to my computer. I have shared the final edit with the Escapade team and am anxiously awaiting their responses. I see an email has come in from Stephanie, but I’m waiting to read it until I’m settled in front of my laptop with Larry at my side. Therapy cat. When he’s in the mood.

“It’s good that he’s back,” Celeste says. “Or at least a step in the right direction. We talked, and we’re going to work together to figure out how to give him more agency and space. And make my work-life balance more… balanced. I’m going to try not to take him for granted so much.”

“But at least the sabbatical is over?”

She nods. “We agreed, he needs to find a job. Something that makes him feel like he’s contributing.”

“Something manly, maybe?”

“Yes. Like a hacker. Or a blacksmith. Or a rodeo clown.”

“Hmm. How does he feel about rubber chickens?”

“Jury’s out! Anyway, at least he’s home from the log cabin. All his laundry smells like fireplace and stew,” she says, grimacing. “Why do men need to pretend to be in westerns in order to get their heads on straight? It’s all one big remake of City Slickers . Only without the jokes.”

“I don’t know. You’ll never find me in the woods alone. Anytime I’m in a cabin, I assume I’m seconds from being murdered by a deranged psychopath. Unless it’s part of a quaint resort.”

“Less woods. More Woodbury Commons.”

“Outlet shopping, absolutely,” I say. “Retail therapy is real!”

We stop at the top of the next block in front of our adorable neighborhood café. The smell of coffee and banana muffins wafts from the open doors.

“I should go,” Celeste says. She still looks tortured.

“How are you actually feeling about it all? Jamie’s mental state is on the upswing, but how is yours?”

“I guess time will tell,” she sighs. “It just freaks me out how quickly things can change. It’s a good reminder to appreciate what’s in front of you. In the meantime, I have deadlines!” She turns to leave, adjusting her bag strap on her shoulder. “Wait, Sash. Any word from Ethan?”

After the scene at the festival, I had finally dished all the sordid details of my dalliance with Demon Dad. Celeste had been impressed by what she mockingly called my “wild side.”

“No.” I tie and retie my scarf around my neck. “I don’t think I’ll hear from him.”

“Why not?”

“Because he lied to me.” And possibly has sworn off women for life.

“He didn’t reveal all the details, it’s true.” Celeste studies me for a beat. “Don’t hate me, but I think maybe you should give him a break.”

“You do?” There is an aching in my chest that releases the tiniest bit. Air hissing through a valve. It feels like I am getting permission to follow my heart and ignore my brain. But I’m not ready to do it. Plus, he would need to do the same.

“That was a tricky situation to handle,” she says. “I’m not saying he made the right choice, but was there a good way? Would you have stuck around if he was transparent? We all make mistakes, right? Even me.”

“Yeah, but you’re you .”

“And he’s him. And a looker to boot.” She wiggles her eyebrows in jest.

“It’s just… messy.” I frown.

“I mean, yes,” Celeste agrees. “But, then again, what isn’t?”

Back at the apartment, I settle in front of my computer at the kitchen table and bask in the glory of a finished job. Derek and Stephanie love the footage and, aside from a couple tiny tweaks, we are good to go. It will be a few weeks before the story goes live, but, in the meantime, they’ll use clips from the video content as teasers.

I am about to forage in the fridge for a reward when a separate email from Stephanie lands in my inbox:

Sash! Thought you might appreciate this excerpt from the feature. For your eyes only. Still needs an edit. But a couple of grafs are copied below. Call me when you read!

xx S.

When it finally opens its doors after a soft launch, Citrine Cay will no doubt wow guests. This is not an average hotel. Rather, there’s a sense of quid pro quo between nature and what’s been erected here, a wildness that infuses the experience with intoxicating possibility and abandon. This place is not sterile. There are no golf courses or manicured tennis courts. Unlike more corporate or conventional top-end resorts, here, dust blows up from unpaved roads, framed by deceptively rugged terrain. The land is owned more by a thriving population of protected iguanas than by the human beings playing house.

And, yet, the issue of ownership is paramount here: this new destination is the vision of onetime actor-cum-mogul Martin Bernard. And his presence on property is sure to attract the glitterati—at least members of that set who still find him fit for fraternity. While Bernard has most certainly discovered a paradise—a deeply special as yet unspoiled place, ideal for a hyperexclusive escape of this kind—all the beauty cannot compensate for the ugliness he himself projects. Though his handlers have managed to spin the tale of his retirement in a way that sounds voluntary, speculation has circulated that perhaps he was one of many men forced to reckon with his repeated poor treatment of women, minorities and others working under him for years.

I am stunned. Breath gone. This is major.

I call Stephanie right away. And, when she picks up, I am still catching up.

“Oh my God!” I say.

“Right?” she says. “We debated whether I should write it, but, ultimately, Ethan felt like it was irresponsible not to speak up about Martin’s behavior. He offered to write this part as an addendum, as part of his editor’s letter, and take the heat, but you know me—I’m here for it! I don’t mind a little extra attention.”

“I’m so impressed!” I really am. By her. By Ethan. Especially considering his job hangs in the balance. “I didn’t know if you’d be up for something like this—?”

“What? Why not? You know I have no fear!”

“Well”—how do I say this delicately?—“I thought you guys boned.” Why be delicate with Stephanie? The beauty of knowing her is not having to be.

“What?! Ew! Me and Martin? Sasha! That man is thirty years older than me!”

I shrug at myself in the wall mirror. “Well, you were kind of tolerant of him on that first night.”

“You can’t be intolerant of someone you want to get to dish for a story!”

“And then the next night, you were… gone! All night.”

“Oh my God!” Stephanie is cracking up. “Derek! Derek! Come here.”

I hear Derek’s irritated “What?” faintly in the background.

“I’m talking to Sasha. She thought I slept with Martin on the trip!”

I cover my eyes though they can’t see me.

“No way!” I hear him laugh. “Well, to be fair, one never knows with you.”

“Sasha,” she says, her voice quieter. “You know I was just trying to give you space. That’s why I stayed out. Which it does not seem like you took advantage of, BTW!”

At least Ethan and I escaped without the others realizing what happened between us. “Right. I know. I appreciate the effort.”

Larry the cat wanders over to me, stops and then stares up at me like he knows I’m a liar.

“So, you were just sharing Jackie’s room that whole time?” I ask.

“Jackie! No. I was with Charlie!”

Charlie . It all starts to click into place. Derek’s discomfort at the lunch table. Charlie’s hefty appetite the next day. The subtle innuendo. Which I, of course, missed because I was too busy panicking about my own.

“Charlie. Right. Well, that makes much more sense.”

“Um, yeah.”

I’m late to the game, but I’m happy they found each other. “Ahhhh. Steph! He’s so cute.”

“Yeah, no kidding! And recently single. And not a handsy, racist, misogynist, old dude. We’re grabbing a drink tonight! The saga continues.”

I don’t know why this stops me in my tracks. “Oh, you’re still seeing Charlie now? Like back here?”

“Sure! Why not?!”

I think about Charlie and Stephanie, out somewhere in New York together. The vibe so different from those chill evenings by the beach. Could they carry what they found at Citrine into their real lives? Grab drinks and dinners at dim restaurants, wander museums, binge watch shows on their couches? What is it that’s making my words catch in my throat? Is it guilt? Recognition? Jealousy?

I realize Stephanie is kind of my hero. She truly is fearless.

“Hang on,” Stephanie says. “Derek wants to talk to you. Privately . Very intriguing. I’m going to transfer you to his office. Bye!”

“Martin. Ha!” I hear her murmur before putting me on hold.

I stand up and start pacing. Suddenly, I am flooded with nervous energy.

I wait, anxiously, for Derek to pick up. And, when he does, I am still startled by the way his voice breaks in. What is wrong with me? Why am I so on edge?

“Sasha, hi. Great work on the video.”

I picture him at a large glass desk in one of a row of offices, a segment of the skyline visible out the window. No doubt his desk is spotless.

“You really did a fantastic job,” he says. “The footage came out so well. We’re all thrilled. I shared it with Ethan earlier, and he’s also really pleased.”

“I’m so glad!” I chirp. Because I am. But also because—is he? Something ricochets through me at the mention of his name.

“So, I wanted to talk to you about the full-time position. If you’re interested, we’d like to connect you with HR and begin serious conversations about it.”

The job! My heart sings. And then hits a sharp note and nose-dives. How do I even say this delicately? This isn’t Stephanie. I trust Derek to be discreet, but I also don’t want him to judge me.

“Derek,” I say, staring at myself in Nettie’s full-length mirror as I speak. Would I take me seriously? I am wearing a “Maryland is for crabs!” T-shirt. “Um. I’m not sure I can work for Ethan. Or that it would even be ethical for him to consider hiring me.” I bite my lip, cringe at myself.

There is a weighty pause. “Right, well, he has already officially recused himself from the hiring process because he knows you personally, outside of work. As parents. At the school.”

He says these last words with emphasis. Because that’s how Ethan and I know each other. Not from the outdoor shower. Only, I get the sense that Derek knows more than he’s letting on. As usual.

“But what about working for him? Won’t that also be a conflict? Because of… the school connection?”

“HR will designate someone else as your supervisor, likely me, so that you can be assured of objective treatment.”

“Wait, really?” Is this happening? It dawns on me that all my worry over having tanked this opportunity was for nothing. So much wasted energy. The position can still be mine! The money! The 401(k)! The Christmas parties (where Professional Sasha will not get drunk and make out with the boss)! Well. Probably not.

Relief drops through me.

“Really,” says Derek. “So? Interested?”

I am blown away. I have not blown it all. The job is still a possibility. And Ethan has paved the way for me without ever being asked.

“I am interested. Beyond interested. It’s my dream job, and I would love to be considered.”

“Good.” I can hear the smile in Derek’s voice. “For what it’s worth, I’m hopeful that, even without this official HR process in place, you and Ethan would not have let… school… get in the way.”

“Really?” I am feeling more bold. “But you seemed dubious from the start.”

“Only because I thought you were married. And I could see what was happening.”

“What was happening?”

“ School was happening.” School has clearly become a synonym for sex , which is deeply awkward, but still less awkward than saying shower sex .

“What made you think it would happen?”

“Because I’ve been working with that man for long enough,” says Derek, in a rare moment of candor. “I could tell how much he liked you from the second I saw you together. When he passed your name on initially, I had no idea he actually knew or had any opinion about you. He didn’t let on. And, when I realized… man, it stressed me out.”

“You think he really liked me? From the beginning?” A fresh kaleidoscope of nerves flutters through me. But, in the mirror, I can’t keep the smile off my face. It’s embarrassing even to me. What am I doing? Ethan lied to me. Can he even be trusted? Can I? Can we show our faces at school? Is he even still interested? Probably not. He’s certainly given me a lot of space.

“I think he likes you, currently. I think he’s an amazing catch. And as your potential supervisor, I think I should not be having this conversation with you.”

“Right,” I say. “Conversation over. Almost. I don’t know, Derek. The situation is already so complicated. It all seems less than ideal.”

“Maybe,” says Derek. “But love is never convenient.”

Love .

When we get off the phone, I sit down on Nettie’s bed. In her sweet room. With its white walls and pastel bedding, stray friendship bracelets and owl paraphernalia lining the shelves.

And I recognize in this moment, I have at least given my children this. Stability. Cheer. Love. With this job, maybe I can give them more.

But what have I not given myself? What are my barriers to happiness? To partnership? To love? What have they been all along?

Cliff. Money. Time. Stress. Parenting. The mental load. These demands have cock-blocked my peace for years. At least, that’s what I would have told myself before.

Now I wonder: Was it me all along?

As I look at my reflection in the mirror—which looks okay “for my age”—I realize that one enormous barrier is the way that I see myself. As a worker bee or a vessel before a woman. I have stopped viewing myself as autonomous.

That’s the most surprising thing about the changes of the last few weeks to me—the mental leap about my own identity.

I have always liked to remain a step removed. Kaitlin wasn’t wrong about that. Not for the sake of a set of values but for my own protection, I realize now. I like people to see me with that sheen that Kaitlin remembered—easier to maintain with some distance. I like to look clean and crisp and not try too, too hard. I like them to think that they’re lucky to be my friends.

Only it’s been a long time since I really felt that way. It’s been a long time since my skin glowed and my hair looked perfect and my stomach was flat and I got my liquid cat-eye liner just right and I didn’t have giant dark circles under my eyes and a small smudge of kid food somewhere on my sweater. It’s been a long time since I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror midday and looked as together as I thought I had when I left the house. It’s been a long time since I looked in the mirror and wasn’t surprised by the older face that gazed back at me.

I am a different person now. That’s the truth. I am no longer the prettiest girl in school—or at least the one who did the most with what she had. Who knew how to coolly attract the right attention and just a bit of fear. I am not untouchable or sparkling. I am not wild or even really fun. I pee when I jump. I pee at night when I try to sleep. I pretty much pee all the time. And I’ve lived enough to know that a correct Kegel is only an urban legend.

I am an old lady. Or I might as well be. I like herbal tea and lavender hand cream and walks in the fall down dirt roads. I like hot toddies and bingeing TV shows and wearing sweaters. I like my mom’s edibles. And that is nothing spectacular or revelatory, since it has happened to millions of women before me, except in so far as it shocks me every single fucking day.

And maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t mean that I can’t be something else too.

I guess it never occurred to me that someone else could see me differently than that. Could see me sparkle. Could see me as more than utilitarian. After kids and Cliff and years of single-minded survival. That someone could see me as a whole human instead of a figment of my former self. That I could be a whole person again.