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Kennedy’s backyard is pristine, curated like an Instagram feed with the saturation turned up—symmetry in every corner, perfection draped over the mundane. The lawn is shaved into uniformity, its green so bright it feels artificial. The patio furniture is arranged like a showroom, all sharp lines and coordinated cushions, and even the bounce house, riotous in its colors and its cacophony of children, feels intentional, a controlled chaos to complement the order. It is Liam’s third birthday, and his parents are making a show of it.

I sit stiffly on the edge of a wicker chair, my iced tea sweating onto the glass side table. The condensation pools into tiny circles that refuse to stay contained, slipping into one another until they form a jagged mess of moisture. I swipe at them with my finger, but the smear it leaves behind is worse, a half-erased mistake that only draws more attention to itself.

Kennedy is effortless beside me, her laughter cutting through the sound of children’ shrieks as they hurl their tiny bodies against the walls of the bounce house. Her mojito sits balanced in her hand, the glass already frosted, the mint still crisp and vibrant.

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“I still can’t believe you have a kid,”

I say, my eyes drifting to Liam, his sweaty face scrunched in pure, unselfconscious joy as he launches himself into the air. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his shoes dangling precariously with one strap undone, flapping against his heel like it’s protesting every jump. The urge to fix it rises in me, unbidden, as if order could be imposed on his wild, untethered joy.

Kennedy laughs lightly, like this moment is just another accessory in her endless arsenal of perfect ones. “I know, right? Sometimes I can’t believe it either. But hey, life moves fast.”

Life moves fast. The words hang in the air, gilded and sharp, as though they weren’t meant to land on me but did anyway. Kennedy’s life has sprinted ahead, gathering itself into milestones and accomplishments: marriage with a successful real estate guy, a child, a house with a lawn so green it borders on satire. My life, meanwhile, has unraveled slowly, as though it wanted me to feel every thread loosen before it fell apart completely.

She turns to me, her eyes too bright with curiosity, cutting through the safety of my iced tea. “So,”

she says, her voice pitched too high, too casual. “How’s the sugar dating going?”

My stomach tightens reflexively, and I take a sip of tea, the cold liquid coating the discomfort in my throat. I stall, letting the silence stretch just enough to seem contemplative, not evasive. “Not much luck on that front,”

I say finally, shrugging as if it doesn’t matter. “But I’ve got a job interview tomorrow.”

The words taste strange in my mouth, like an offering that isn’t entirely mine to give.

Her face lights up, her mojito wobbling dangerously in her excitement. “Oh my God, Gia, that’s amazing! I knew you’d pull through. What’s the job?”

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I hesitate, setting my glass down with care. “Courtroom reporter,”

I say, the words smooth and polished, already rehearsed. The tightness in my chest grows, but my face doesn’t betray it.

Kennedy beams, her hand grazing my arm. “See? I told you. You’re too smart, too talented to...you know,”

she says. “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with it, oh my god.”

She adds it quickly, placing a well-manicured hand on my arm.

I smile tightly, nodding along as though her pride isn’t slicing me in half. The truth hums just beneath the surface. This morning, I sent two words that changed everything: I’m in.

Nathan responded almost immediately. Marvelous. Let’s start tonight.

I’ve been replaying it all day, letting it knot itself into the fabric of my thoughts. I wonder if Kennedy would understand—if she could fathom it—me pretending to be a dog for eight hours for a man I met online.

Her hand is warm on my arm, grounding and unbearable all at once. “This is such a huge step forward for you,”

she says, her voice honeyed with pride. “You’re going to kill it, babe.”

“Thank you, I hope,”

I say, my voice thinner than hers, brittle at the edges. I look past her to Liam, who is still jumping, his shoe strap flapping defiantly with every leap. I count his bounces, anchoring myself to their uneven rhythm, as though their chaos might somehow steady me. I’m still perched on the wicker chair, my spine too straight, like a guest at an interview I didn’t apply for. My iced tea is sweating on the glass table beside me, the condensation pooling into shapes I keep trying to fix, but they resist, spreading out into jagged lines. Every moment feels like it’s designed for scrutiny.

Across the yard, Kennedy moves like she owns the sun. Her dress is linen, loose enough to suggest she’s untouched by the heat, and she laughs lightly at the dad jokes being lobbed by her husband

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who is standing next to some other dad wearing boat shoes. She tosses her hair, a single stubbornly out of place piece of hair in what is otherwise a curtain of gold. She’s effortless in the way that makes me hyper-aware of my body, my sweat, the way my Forever 21 dress sticks to my thighs.

“Liam, fix your shoe!”

she calls, her voice cutting through the din. Liam looks over, his hair plastered to his forehead, one shoe halfway off, and grins defiantly before launching himself against the rubber wall. He knows she won’t leave her audience.

I press my hands against my thighs, the sweat slick against my palms, and glance at the other parents clustered under the pergola. They hold cocktails and conversations like weapons, their laughter forced into neat bursts that signal camaraderie but stop short of authenticity. They talk about things like school districts and organic snacks and the best way to get crayon off a wall, and the sound washes over me like static. I don’t belong here. Not in this house, not in this backyard, not in this domestic bliss life.

Kennedy turns her attention back to me, her mojito barely touched, the mint still green and perfect. She sits back on the edge of her chair, her presence spilling over into my space. “Isn’t this amazing?”

she says, gesturing to the scene like a general surveying her army. “I can’t believe we pulled this off. Liam’s going to remember this forever.”

I nod, my throat tight, the words stuck somewhere between polite agreement and the urge to laugh. Liam will forget this party by next week. What he’ll remember, what will live in his bones, is the hum of Kennedy’s relentless perfection, the way it shapes and shadows everything around her. The perfect mother. He doesn’t know how lucky he is.

“Did you see the cake?”

she asks, her eyes bright with pride. “It’s a three-tier fondant masterpiece. Took me weeks to find the right baker.”

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I glance toward the dessert table, where the cake stands like a trophy. It’s shaped like a train, its details so intricate it looks like something from a magazine. Liam doesn’t care about the cake. He’s still bouncing, his shoe finally flung off, his laughter floating through the air.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

Kennedy beams. “I wanted something memorable, you know? Something that says, ‘You’re special.’”

Her voice dips into a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ll understand one day.”

I smile, tight-lipped, and take another sip of my tea. The sugar grates against my teeth at the thought. Do I even really want a child? A family? The notion of it is so far removed from my current life that the thought almost feels illegal, like I shouldn’t be allowed to think about these things.

The party churns on around us, the soundtrack of children screaming and some adults pretending to care, others caring way too much. I watch a woman who I vaguely recognize snatch her young daughter away from the bounce house with a bit too much force. Sweetie. Sweetie. Sweetie come here you’re getting too rowdy. Please put down your dress, you are not a boy.

Someone cranks up the Bluetooth speaker, and a pop song spills into the yard, its manufactured cheer adding more excitement to the scene. A kid starts crying, the sound sharp and piercing, and Kennedy’s head snaps toward the noise like a predator sensing weakness.

“Excuse me,”

she says, standing again with the kind of grace that turns even basic movement into performance. She strides toward the chaos, her voice rising in a soothing coo that carries over the din. The other moms watch her, their faces carefully blank, but I see the calculation behind their eyes. They’re clocking her—her dress, her tone, the way she bends without breaking.

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I sit alone, my hands gripping the arms of the chair, the iced tea forgotten beside me. My gaze drifts back to Liam, his body a blur of motion, his hair a mess of sweat and joy. His freedom is something wild and untamed, something this backyard can’t quite contain. It’s the only thing here that feels real.

When I get home, the words I’m in feel heavier, like they’ve been waiting for me to notice their weight. I imagine Kennedy tucking Liam into bed, smoothing his hair, her life folding neatly into place like an average thirty-something- year-old woman. And then I imagine myself on all fours, barking, the collar around my neck a tangible reminder of the choices I’ve made.

I wonder how long I can keep these worlds from touching, how long I can keep their orbits from colliding. For now, they spin separately, unevenly, tethered only by the fragile gravity of my denial.