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For John, Nina, and Roxy—always
1
A little innocent flirting never killed anyone.
“You look like the sauvignon blanc type.”
“Is that right?” The guy standing next to me fills my glass to the rim from a bottle of New Zealand’s finest. I didn’t catch Wine Guy’s name. He’s the same age as the other dads at the party, but he gives off a different energy, like the one house on a dilapidated block that has been painted.
Sharp laughter carries across the kitchen, and I shoot a glance at the corner from which it emanated. It’s three moms from school who completely ignored me for twenty minutes while I listened to them debate Blue Apron versus Plated, with a dumb smile on my face, waiting for a chance to speak. I turn back to Wine Guy and smile. Men are so much easier.
“So there’s a sauvignon blanc type?”
“Oh, definitely.” He smirks, which makes his green eyes crinkle. We are at that age where men get sexier and women get Botox. “And you’re it.”
I glance over at Mark, but my husband hasn’t paid attention to me since we arrived at the annual Eastbrook Neighborhood Social. I can see his dark hair and the back of his checkered shirt on the opposite side of the Gordons’ kitchen; he’s talking to some of the other men about the Washington Nationals’ World Series chances.
“I’m it, huh?” We’re flirting, no denying it, and I don’t mind. It beats mingling and trying to make “mommy friends,” as Mark put it earlier. I spent the first hour of the party wandering around, trying to slip into other women’s conversations, feeling like a moth who keeps banging her head on the glass, a creature too dumb to know she’s outside and is never getting in. “So just what is this sauvignon blanc type?”
I eye the blond streaks in his hair as I lift the glass to my lips, relishing the cool, tangy wine gliding down my throat. I wonder if they’re produced by the sun or a salon. A squeal behind me makes me jump. I turn to see a blond woman in skinny jeans and buttery-brown riding boots embrace an identically dressed friend. I watch them kiss on both cheeks and am flooded with both contempt and jealousy. Aren’t we too old for such conspicuous displays of cliquishness? Also, why don’t I have any girlfriends who squeal when they see me?
“Sauvignon blanc folks like to think they’re unique, creative.”
“Creative, huh?” I pull at my skirt—the damn thing keeps riding up my thighs. I should have worn jeans like all the other moms here. The immense kitchen island offers cover for my wardrobe adjustment. It’s large enough to lay two cadavers out side by side, the gleaming white expanse of marble daring partygoers to spill red wine on it.
“That’s right,” he says. “You look creative. Are you an artist or something?”
I can’t help but smile. I’d like to think that I haven’t lost that spark, even though I’ve become a mom and moved to the suburbs. I let myself indulge in the fantasy that this guy can see I’ve still got it. “Or something. A photographer.”
“A photographer, like Ansel Adams?”
I have to laugh at that one. “More weddings and family portraits, fewer mountain ranges. Although recently I’ve done a bunch of headshots.”
“Anyone famous?”
I laugh. “D.C. famous, maybe. Ever heard of Congressman Marcel Parks?”
“I think so.”
“Did his headshot. There’s a chance I might be doing Valerie Simmons’s. She’s got a new book coming out about her experience in the Obama administration.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Val Simmons? I watch her on CNN. She’s a badass.”
“If you’re interested, you can follow me on Instagram. I’m Allie at allie-photo-dot-com.” Then I blush, embarrassed at how automatic it’s become. Ever since I took a class last year on branding and growing my online presence, I recite my Instagram address to everyone I meet.
“Well, that explains why you don’t run with the chardonnay crowd.”
“The chardonnay crowd? There’s a whole crowd?” I giggle despite myself. And why not? It feels good to lose myself in wine and banter. Since we moved to Eastbrook, a tight-knit neighborhood in the close-in D.C. suburb of Bethesda, and our son, Cole, started kindergarten, my thoughts have been monopolized by to-do items: buying school supplies, arranging lawn service, vaccinations. The soul-crushing minutiae that are both mundane and urgent.
“Sure. Lifetime members of the comfort zone.” He waves his arm around to encompass everyone else in the gleaming white kitchen, which is just smaller than an airplane hangar and boasts a stove the size of a Smart Car, as well as two Sub-Zero fridges. I wonder what the Gordons’ monthly gas bill looks like.
“All chardonnay furniture is beige,” he continues, not breaking eye contact with me, “and anything they’re not familiar with is weird.” He screws up his face when he says that last word.
But it isn’t just that Eastbrook is chardonnay country through and through. It’s me. I’ve never really fit in or belonged to a group. No #girlsquad for me. That wasn’t a big deal in San Francisco, and in Chicago, no one really noticed, but here in the suburbs, you’re nobody if you’re not part of one of the mom tribes—the alpha career moms, the stay-at-home moms, the PTA contingent.
I’ve made one friend so far, my across-the-street neighbor Leah, who has a daughter in the same kindergarten class as Cole. We bonded this summer, baking in the D.C. heat at the neighborhood pool, while our kids splashed around. Our running joke was that we were living in a zombie apocalypse, the only remaining moms thanks to a mass decampment for Nantucket or the Delaware shore.
Actually, I may have two friends if I count Daisy Gordon, but I believe Realtors are contractually obligated to be nice. Yes, she invited us to the party, but from the size of it, she invited the whole neighborhood.
“What else can you tell by looking at me?” I ask.
His gaze travels from my face, down to my breasts, and to my too-short skirt. Heat blooms within me. I cannot remember the last time a man examined me with such frank desire. It’s like rediscovering a slinky red dress I had forgotten about in the back of my closet that still fits. I wouldn’t trade my life with Mark and Cole for anything, but just a little taste of stranger danger won’t hurt. In fact, maybe it could spice things up a little for Mark and me. The move to D.C. hasn’t been great for our love life.
“What else? Let’s see.” Wine Guy narrows his eyes as if he’s trying to read my mind like a boardwalk psychic. “You’re not from D.C.”
I scoff. “That’s too easy. Who is?” Most of the people in this neighborhood come from around the country, around the world even, to work for the government or large international organizations
such as the World Bank. Mark is a rarity in that he grew up around here.
“Fine. How about: you love Cardi B.”
“I do love Cardi B.” I keep sipping the wine, even though I know I am already buzzed. This is where tomorrow’s headache begins, but I don’t put my glass down. I’m sick of worrying about tomorrows. I want to enjoy the now. “But I can’t be the only one who does.”
“In this room?” He looks around and laughs. “You might very well be the only Cardi B fan.”
“What else?” As I ask the question, I glance at Mark. He has not moved from his perch, still surrounded by the same three guys in baggy khakis and billowing polo shirts that do little to hide their dad bods. One of them is crouched like a batter at home plate. Still talking about baseball. If sports are the universal language for men, what do we women have? Maybe our kids or our exercise habits.
“Well, how about this?” he asks. “You’d rather be at home watching the new John Wick 3 than at the annual neighborhood social.”
I laugh because I said the exact same thing to Mark this evening as we were getting ready, even going so far as to offer to break it to Susan, our sitter, that her services wouldn’t be needed. But Mark insisted we go after Daisy told him these neighborhood parties were mostly other parents. You’ll thank me later, he said. Maybe you’ll meet your new best friend.
“How did you know I love John Wick?”
“Lucky guess?”
Last week, I binge-watched the first two movies in the series while editing a tedious wedding shoot. “Have you been snooping in my Netflix queue?”
“Who, me?” His eyes widen in mock innocence, and he pushes on my collarbone with one finger. The heat from his touch radiates across my skin. I want more. This is good. I can take this home to Mark. It’s been almost two months since we’ve had sex. “You should be more trusting, Lexi.”
Lexi.
The sound of that old nickname snatches me from my fog. I’ve left Lexi far behind. “Wait, why did you call me that?”
“Me Rob.” He leans in so close that his forehead almost touches mine. “You Lexi.”
I jerk back. “I need to eat something.”
As I weave through the crowded kitchen, I rack my brain. I might be saturated with wine, but I’m sure I would have introduced myself as Allie, maybe my full name—Alexis—but not Lexi.
Never Lexi.
2
Me Rob, you Lexi.
I shake it off. It’s a common enough nickname for Alexis. It doesn’t have to mean anything. But I feel exposed. Whatever fun we were having, it’s dead now.
Too much wine, I decide, and too little food to absorb it. In search of nourishment to soak up all the alcohol, I push past a cluster of moms chatting in shorthand about swim team meets and times. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Daisy in her crisp, white button-down and door-knocker pearl earrings, waving me over. She’s been nothing but kind to me, yet I can’t tell if she is genuinely interested or if she sees me as another name to add to her LinkedIn network. Mark says I need to make more of an effort and not wait for everyone to come to me.
In a moment, Daisy is enveloping me in a cloud of cotton candy perfume.
“I’m so glad you and Mark came. The Eastbrook parties are where all the cool kids hang.” She winks, hard. “And I’m not just saying that because I’m the president of the neighborhood association. Now, let me introduce you to some people!” Hand on my elbow, she guides me from the kitchen through the brightly lit foyer, which is wallpapered with gold loons preening their long necks against a black-and-white seascape. A modern glass chandelier resembling an illuminated octopus drips from the two-story ceiling.
“That’s an authentic Chihuly.” Daisy points to the chandelier as she whispers in my ear, her breath warm and gin-infused. “One of Trip’s clients gave it to him. I think it’s hideous, but I don’t have the heart to tell him.” She giggles like a schoolgirl and steers me past a yellow lacquered chest, so shiny that I can see our reflection in it. I try to remember what Trip does. Something with natural gas—lobbyist, I think.
“Is Leah here?” I ask as we enter the dining room.
“Not yet.” Daisy rolls her eyes. “Some drama with Dustin. I think they might be getting a therapy dog.”
“Got it.” I’m not surprised there’s drama. From what I have gleaned, Dustin, Leah’s teenage son from her first marriage, is struggling—both socially and academically. A classic combination of off-the-charts intelligence and a lack of social skills. He radiates loneliness even when he’s just taking out the trash.
I am happy to let Daisy lead me around the white tulip table, laden with food, although her attention makes me a little nervous. Beneath her kindhearted curiosity lies the probing scalpel of one of those journalists who gets you to cry on camera. The first time I met her, when she was showing Mark and me houses, I somehow ended up confiding in her that my mother did not consider me the pretty one.
“That is a lot of Le Creuset,” I say, pointing to a wall of display shelves filled with the enameled, cast-iron pots in an array of bright colors. At three hundred dollars a pop, I estimate that I am looking at a week in Florida, or a used Honda.
Daisy’s eye twitches, and for a moment, I worry that I’ve stepped in it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since marrying Mark, it’s that rich people don’t like to talk money.
“They’re really beautiful,” I hasten to add. “I’ve always wanted one, but I’m not really a cook.”
“It’s too much, right?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for my response. “They’re my indulgence. Every time I sell a house, I buy one in a new color. I have more in the basement, if you can believe it. I am obsessing over this season’s new colors. I have to have sea salt—it’s only available at Sur La Table, but the hubster says no way.”
“They’re lovely. They’re like jelly beans. Jelly beans for grown-ups.”
She leans in and whispers, “Take one home! Then I can replace it with the sea salt, and no one will be any wiser.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Melissa!” she calls over my shoulder. “Allie, I have to go say hi, but please, eat these for me.” Daisy hands a plate of spanakopita to me. “You’re so skinny, it’s disgusting.”
Then she leaves me to welcome a woman who is trying to wedge a tray of cut fruit onto the table. I turn to a woman beside me in tight pants and brown boots that ride up over her knees, accentuating her pin-like thighs. Just like the ones the two women in the kitchen were wearing. I’ve met her before, at back-to-school night, but I can’t recall her name. Before I can say anything, the woman sticks out her hand at me. “Tanya. My Oliver is in Mrs. Liu’s class.” Her cool hand is limp, as if squeezing too hard would be a proletarian display of effort. “You look familiar,” she says in a bored tone.
“Yes, we met at back-to-school night.”
“No, that’s not it. Did you go to Georgetown Law?”
“No, not me.”
“You sure?”
“Yup, I’m sure I didn’t go to Georgetown Law.” I pop a few mini-quiches on my plate, hoping she doesn’t ask me where I went to college. I doubt there are too many other art school dropouts here. “But our kids are in the same class. Cole is in Ms. Liu’s class, as well.…”
But Tanya is no longer listening to me. Her eyes widen as she screeches with delight at something she has spotted. The smile and enthusiasm absent from our exchange are now on full display.
Tanya’s voice booms out, “Edie! Sasha! Any other riding girls?” Everyone in the vicinity freezes for a moment, flattening themselves against the edges of the room so the riding girls can enter. I hover on the sideline like a parent at a child’s soccer game and make polite eye contact with the other bystanders as Tanya and her friends, including the two I saw earlier in the kitchen, pose for photos, angling this way and then turning that way in their matching boots.
My throat tightens and I grip my wineglass, which is dangerously close to being empty.
A low-grade panic swells in me, and I’m transported back to the day in fifth grade when my three closest friends announced that my presence was no longer needed at the lunch table. I’m almost tempted to seek out Rob, the wine guy. At least he was friendly. But then I think of him calling me Lexi, and I shudder. He’s a creep.
Daisy sidles up to me, her plate covered in blueberries and kiwi. “Allie, do you know the fabulous Karen Pearce? Karen is not just a wonderful pediatrician, she is also the room-parent coordinator for Eastbrook. Allie’s a big-time photographer who just moved into the neighborhood from Chicago. Her husband Mark’s a lawyer, and they have a kindergarten boy named Cole.”
“Cole hasn’t really done anything impressive yet,” I say. “Unless you count finger painting.” Daisy laughs, but Karen’s smile seems strained.
“Welcome to the neighborhood. Allie, is it?” A flicker of recognition crosses Karen’s eyes. Had she heard something about me, or was it just something in Daisy’s detailed introduction that resonated? “So where did you put the mini-buns?”
“The what?” I ask, unsure if I heard correctly.
“For the sliders?” It is then that I notice a platter stacked with tiny round meat patties.
Karen is smiling, but her voice comes out strained. “The mini–hamburger buns. You signed up to bring three dozen.”
“I did? I don’t think I did.”
“Pickles are here, pickles are here!” A statuesque woman with long, curly brown hair strides in, carrying two oversize jars of pickle chips. She, too, wears brown boots. I want to tell her that she’s missed the photo. “Hey, Karen, Daisy, where are we putting the pickles?”
“Right here.” Karen moves a large wooden salad bowl to make room. “Allie, this is Vicki Armstrong, our incredible PTA president.”
Vicki flashes me a thin smile and then, after a quick survey of the table, scowls. “Wait, where are the buns?”
“There might be a problem with the buns.” Karen keeps her eyes fixed on Vicki, as if beaming a message to her in some special PTA language, inaudible to the rest of us.
I Don't Forgive You Page 1