Page 35 of The Wives of Hawthorne Lane

“Right,” Erica replies, stretching the vowels sarcastically, “of course. It’s Lucas who has you in such a suspiciously good mood lately.” But mercifully, she doesn’t press the issue. “How did his math test go yesterday?” she asks. “I know you said he was nervous about it.”

Libby exhales in relief, happy to move to a safer topic. “He aced it.”

“Some kid you’ve got there, Lib. A varsity athlete and straight As. It’s impressive.”

“I know. Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I got with him.”

“Lucky?” Erica huffs as she bundles the cut stems on the workbench and points them at Libby. “You never give yourself enough credit. Do you realize that? Luck has nothing to do with it. Lucas is a great kid because he was raised by a great mom.”

Libby feels a lump forming in her throat as she watches Erica finish wiping down her station. She hadn’t realized until this very moment how much she needed to hear those words. She has been a good mother to Lucas. Or at least, she’s tried to be.

It wasn’t always easy, running Lily Lane and raising her son.

After she opened the shop, she finally felt like she had it all: a family, motherhood, a job that made her feel personally and professionally fulfilled.

Though it often felt like she had two cups, work and home, and she had to be deliberate about how she poured her time and attention into them, giving each what they needed at any given moment without allowing the other one to run dry.

But at the end of the day, Lucas had always been her priority.

Libby might not have been the type of mother who was known for her homemade cookies at the school bake sale, but she was there for her son when it mattered.

She’d closed the shop early, without hesitation, whenever the school nurse called, and she’d organized her shifts around Lucas’s soccer schedule so that she never missed a game.

She knew how much it meant to him to have her there in the stands, even when he became too cool to admit it.

She could see it in the way he’d always search for her face in the crowd after he scored a goal, pride in his eyes, and the way he’d dissect the game in the car on the way home, chatting animatedly to Libby as he recounted each save, every offensive maneuver.

She and Lucas might be going through a tough stage right now, but she hopes he knows that he’s always been the most important thing in her life. She hopes he knows she did her best.

“You okay?” Erica asks, watching Libby suspiciously.

“Yes. I’m fine. Just…thank you. You know, for everything. For what you do around here, and for being such great a friend to me.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Erica replies, waving Libby off. “Don’t go getting all sentimental on me now.”

Libby laughs, though she still feels like she could cry. And then her phone pings again.

“Do you need to answer Lucas ?” Erica asks, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

Libby should have known that Erica wouldn’t let this go so easily.

She can imagine her reaction if she were to tell her the truth: that she’s been chatting with a man named Peter, whom she met on the dating site.

Erica would be elated, wanting to see a photo, scouring his profile.

Erica has been fiercely loyal to Libby since she hired her but even more so since Bill left.

“I never liked him,” she’d declared, folding her arms over her chest, when Libby told her that she and Bill were taking some time apart. “He’s a goddamn idiot, that’s what he is,” she’d added, her consonants clipped. (Her accent is always more noticeable when she’s angry.)

Libby is thankful to have Erica in her corner, but she’s not sure she wants to unleash her on Peter just yet. It still feels so new. Tenuous.

“How about I grab us some lunch from that café you like?” Libby offers, eager to change the subject. “My treat.”

“Oh, Green Fare?” Erica essentially moans. “That sounds amazing. Have I told you lately that you’re the best boss ever?”

“Yes, and I never get tired of hearing it.” Libby unties her apron and shrugs the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

—

It’s a beautiful fall day outside, sunny and golden in the way only autumn afternoons can be, and Libby walks slowly down Main Street, enjoying the crisp breeze, the smell of the dry leaves that have gathered in windswept piles along the curb.

Now that she’s alone, she pulls her phone out of her pocket, eager to read Peter’s latest messages.

They’ve been chatting for a few weeks now, which is more than she can say for anyone else who’d messaged her through the site, most of whom had sent her aggressive advances that she’d quickly turned down.

But Peter was different. At first, he’d seemed nice enough, if a little bland.

They’d exchanged a few harmless messages—comments on the weather, their favorite artists, classic movies.

But lately Libby has noticed that their conversations have taken a turn.

They’ve gone from making small talk to discussing things that really matter: his job as a mortgage broker, her store, their families.

Conversations that span days and weeks as they slowly, cautiously get to know each other.

Peter has written now:

Just thinking about you. I hope you’re having a good day!

Libby smiles to herself as she types out a reply:

It’s been busy, but good! Yours?

He replies almost immediately:

Better now that I’m talking to you ;)

Libby’s smile widens. How nice it is to know that someone is thinking of her.

She was surprised to discover just how much she liked seeing a familiar name on her phone screen, how much she missed having someone, anyone, ask her about her day.

Peter isn’t her usual type—his rectangular glasses and combed-over hair are nothing like Bill’s athletic build and charming smile, though Libby supposes he’s cute in a nerdy sort of way.

But above all, talking to Peter has been a good distraction.

She realizes now that Erica was right—she has been in a better mood lately.

Less of that burning anger she’d felt when she first learned about Bill and Heather.

She’s found herself checking Heather’s Instagram page less often since she and Peter started exchanging messages too.

And she recognizes that this is a good thing.

All it was doing was making her more bitter.

When Libby reaches Green Fare, it’s packed, a line snaking from the small café to the sidewalk.

Personally, Libby can’t understand why Erica loves this place so much, but judging by the dozens of people waiting for their lunchtime wheatgrass smoothies and kale salads, she’s in the minority on that one.

Libby studies the menu board hanging over the registers.

What the hell is in a protein wrap? Next time, she’s definitely choosing a different lunch spot.

Someplace where the word keto is nowhere on the menu.

She pulls out her phone again, considering sending another message to Peter while she waits, but she finds that he’s already typing, three little dots pulsing on her screen.

She feels a quiver in her stomach as she always does when waiting for Peter’s next message, bracing herself for what she suspects is coming soon.

Peter hasn’t asked her to meet in person yet, but it’s only a matter of time, right?

That’s what these sites are for. And yet, as much as she’s enjoyed his messages, she’s not sure she’s ready for that.

With what they’re doing here, texting, slowly opening up to each other in measured steps, she feels like she’s in control, like she hasn’t committed to anything yet.

But as soon as she meets Peter, as soon as he becomes a real flesh-and-blood person in her life, things are bound to get more complicated. Is she ready for complicated?

The three little dots disappear from the screen and Libby sighs, dropping her phone back into her purse.

She’ll cross that bridge when she comes to it.

For now, it’s just nice to feel a little less alone in the world, even if her connection with Peter is confined to the little rectangle of her phone.

At the very least, it keeps her from dwelling too much on thoughts of Bill and—

“Heather! Order for Heather!”

Libby’s head snaps up at the sound of the name and she sees one of the staff members holding up a large green smoothie. “Pickup for Heather!”

Libby frantically scans the room. Heather is a fairly common name, right? There’s no reason to think that it’s Bill’s Heather. What are the chances of—

But then she’s there. Heather. As if she’d stepped out of the pixelated images Libby has lost so many hours staring at and into vivid, three-dimensional reality. Libby watches her walk up to the pickup counter and collect her drink, smiling at the worker who made it for her.

Libby wanders off the line, her eyes fixed on Heather, as if she’s been lulled into a trance by her presence.

She watches as Heather places the straw between her lips, slick with a coat of cherry-red lipstick, and pulls a deep sip.

There’s something so suggestive about the gesture, about the way she moves, about the sway of her ultra-trendy cape jacket as she heads for the door.

Libby follows her, picking her way through the crowd. She watches how the other woman walks, her cognac leather boots taking long strides down the sidewalk, her long, sleek, black hair shining in the afternoon sun.

Until now, Libby had only ever seen Heather through her computer screen or as a shadowy silhouette through Bill’s window.

But now she’s so close that Libby could close the gap between them with a few hurried steps; she can smell the sugary-sweet scent of her perfume carried on the gentle autumn breeze.

She’s real. Heather is real, and Libby is transfixed by the sight of her, overwhelmed by the reality of her.

Heather stops as she reaches a crosswalk, flicks a glossy sheet of hair over her shoulder in one graceful movement, and waits patiently for the light to change.

That’s when Libby feels it. The Band-Aid Peter had been acting as suddenly ripped from her skin, exposing the raw open wound beneath.

What does it matter that she’s been chatting to some random man from the internet when Bill has her ?

This woman, with her youthful beauty and sultry smile, has taken everything from Libby.

And now she’s standing here, ten feet away, wholly and completely unbothered, drinking a fucking smoothie in the afternoon sun like all is right in the world.

Libby clenches her teeth, her molars grinding together painfully.

The image comes to her then in a flash. It’s not a conscious thought, something she’s considered and decided upon; it comes to her at once as though it sprang fully formed from the darkest corner of her mind: She imagines herself walking up behind Heather.

She imagines stretching out her arms, her palms slabbed against the wool of that stupid coat, and she imagines pushing the other woman into traffic.

She can hear the crunch of bone, smell the scent of burning rubber; all of her problems disappearing in an instant—

Ping.

Libby’s phone chirps, and it releases her from whatever spell she’d been under like a cold shot of reality injected straight into her veins.

Where did that come from? she thinks as she checks the screen with trembling fingers. I’m not that person. I can’t be that person.

I’d really like to meet you, Libby. Even if it’s just for a cup of coffee. If you’re ready?

Libby stares down at the phone, frightened of the darkness that just took hold of her.

The truth is that she doesn’t know if she’s ready to put herself out there, but maybe it’s what she needs to do.

This unhealthy obsession with Heather has to stop.

Libby doesn’t like the person it’s turning her into, someone capable of such terrible, violent thoughts.

That’s not Libby. Or at least, it’s not who she wants to be.

She wants to be the idyllic, uncomplicated version of herself that Peter sees; she wants the clean slate he’s written her story on.

But in order to do that, she needs to stop wallowing in the anger and pain of her past with Bill; she needs to find a way to let it go, to move forward.

Maybe forcing herself to take this step with Peter is the way to do that.

Even though it scares her, maybe it’s the very thing that will save her.

Yes. I’m ready.