I shut the computer and head upstairs. The wine has made me sleepy, and I climb into the warm bed beside Mark. He’s on his back, and I slide my hand under his T-shirt, tracing my finger down his chest until it arrives at the elastic waistband of his boxers. Territory I haven’t explored in months. I slip my hand inside. He lets out a low groan and rolls toward me, his body responsive even as his mind has not quite caught up.
A quote I once read comes to me: “There is love, of course. And then there’s life, its enemy.” You can find a pedestrian article on that theme in every women’s magazine in every doctor’s waiting room. How domestic routines can destroy romance. Mark’s eyes open; his face is a question. Before he can articulate it, I lean in and we are kissing.
Soon he is inside me, and even though we haven’t been together for almost two months, we move with the familiarity of bodies that instinctively recognize each other. We are quiet, efficient, practiced at the art of domestic sex.
“Harder,” I whisper, and he complies. I want him to nail me down to the bed. I want to be stuck in place like a piece of paper under a rock on a windy day. Fuck the book club, the neighborhood gossips, the internet. Mark is my husband, Cole is my son, this is my house, my life.
But I can’t shake the feeling there is more to this Rob Avery thing than just bad luck. The Overton shirt, him calling me Sexy Lexi. Those details are like bits and pieces of some complicated mathematical equation that I don’t yet know how to solve.
And deep in my bones, I know when the answer comes, it will not be good.
16
In the photo, my breasts pour out of a cobalt-blue bikini top.
Below the picture, it says: Alexis, but my friends call me Sexy Lexi. Married, but I don’t mind if you don’t.
I look up from my phone to make sure Cole has paused at the corner to wait for my signal like he’s supposed to. I nod at him and he runs ahead. The streets are empty this morning, we’re running a bit late, and the rush of hurrying children has subsided.
“You there?” Krystle’s voice sounds tinny coming through my phone at arm’s length.
“I’m here,” I say.
“You recognize the photo? That could be a clue.”
The blue bikini had been a bad online purchase. I wore it to our local pool once, on Memorial Day, the day after we moved into our new house, before I decided it was not family-friendly.
My stomach churns. Someone has been stalking me since I moved in.
“How did you find this?” I ask.
“On Tinder,” she says. “It was pretty easy, actually. I just looked for women seeking men within five miles of you. This is no random Russian hacker.”
“No. Whoever made this page knows about Overton.” My skin prickles with the electric sensation of being watched. My tormentor lives right here, I think, as I pass by a row of picture-perfect colonials with manicured lawns.
“Who?” Krystle asks. “Who lives near you that knows about that shit?”
I don’t have an answer for that question. All I know is that I need to shut this Tinder account down, and fast. I tell Krystle I’ll call her later and jog to catch up to Cole. He points to the last few riders spilling off the yellow school buses.
“We’re not late!”
Then he stops short and screws up his face in outrage. Out comes a shriek, sent straight up to the milky-white sky. “It’s Blue Day! I was supposed to dress in blue!” Tears spring from his eyes as if they have been ready on standby.
As I glance at the other children going in, I have a vague recollection of an email about Blue Day, a show of solidarity with all the endangered marine mammals of the earth.
“Your shirt has blue in it, look.” I unzip his pink hoodie coat and run a finger along a sky-blue strip of material.
Cole snaps at me like a cornered dog. “No! It’s striped. That doesn’t count. I need to go home and change.” He stomps his foot once and then, pleased with the sound, a few more times.
“Honey, it’s too late.”
“You forgot to tell me.” He zeroes in on my face. “You forget everything.”
His accusation stings. A woman in an orange safety vest approaches and, after a few tense words, ushers Cole inside the building.
I turn and hurry back up the hill toward home, passing a black Audi with Virginia plates. The car is parked across from the school on the side of the street that is supposed to remain clear during school hours. This is the kind of infraction that brings down the wrath of the PTA moms, and sure enough, Vicki comes striding across the street toward the car. The first three license plate letters are FCS, which remind me of Sharon’s favorite expression—“For cripes’ sake.”
I have no desire to cross paths with the woman who humiliated me over mini–hamburger buns on Saturday night, so I quicken my step to avoid having to pass her. I’m feeling raw and vulnerable; I don’t have the energy to even pretend to be friendly.
Vicki is sure to have heard about me and Rob Avery. Maybe she’s even seen the photo. It’s possible she even took it.
I chide myself for my paranoia. There has to be a reasonable explanation for everything.
I sense someone behind me and turn to see Daisy and another woman hurrying toward me. It’s too late to turn away, so I offer a small smile, hoping they will walk past. But as they near me, they slow down. All the muscles in my neck tighten.
“Good morning,
