She frowns. “You told me.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to replay our conversations in my head. “I did? Because I don’t think I did.”
“Yeah, sweetie. At the park. You said he told you to stay off Tinder. And he called you some nickname?”
“I don’t remember that.” But it makes sense—how else would she know?
A scraping noise, like a chair being dragged across a floor, echoes from above. Leah rolls her eyes at the ceiling. “God knows what Dustin is doing. He came home about an hour ago and has literally not left his room. Except to grab a piece of cold pizza, which he then took back upstairs. David’s at a client dinner, so me and this bottle of wine are keeping up with the Kardashians.” She points to a tray of tiny little spirals of dough. “Rugelach for International Night. The Jewish table is totally random—hummus from Israel next to rugelach from Poland.”
I sit down at a stool and try to let the domesticity of the scene calm me down. A Jo Malone candle is burning nearby, and some kind of acoustic music is playing from the small speakers in the ceiling. I search my brain for the file on International Night. There have been loads of emails, and I’ve gathered that International Night is a big deal at Eastbrook Elementary School. Parents set up tables in the cafeteria representing their cultural heritage and serve food and drink from their family’s country of origin. Apparently, some even dress up in elaborate ethnic costumes. Cole and Mark have already been brainstorming what they can come up with to reflect Mark’s Scottish heritage. Haggis is out, shortbread is a possibility.
“What do you think?” Leah asks. “It’s a Martha Stewart recipe. Don’t tell anyone it’s not an authentic family recipe from Poland, especially not David’s mother. She thinks I don’t know how to cook authentic Jewish food. I mean, she’s right, my mother was more the TV dinner type, but she’s very judgy about the whole thing.”
The words continue to flow, and I don’t try to stop her from talking. She grabs a glass and empties the last of the bottle into it. “You want some?”
As she digs through the small wine fridge nestled beneath the kitchen counter, Leah keeps talking. “You know, she cannot get over my quitting law to stay at home. And I’m like, my choice. Get over it. But the truth is, maybe she’s right.” She unscrews the top and pours both of us a glass, her smile replaced by a concerned look. “Sorry, you’ve got real problems, and I’m complaining about being a suburban housewife.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “I get really lonely when Mark works late, too. How long have you been a stay-at-home mom?”
“Going on three years. Basically, when I started having to pull Dustin out for testing and therapy. At first, it was great. It was like, ahhhh, relief. But nobody’s around in this neighborhood during the day. You know how D.C. is, all these type A moms working crazy stressful jobs. No time to socialize. But I am so glad you moved in! That was a lucky break for me.”
“Me, too,” I say. “I feel really lucky you’re my neighbor and not like Vicki or Karen.”
She laughs. “And I love my kids to pieces, but I swear, Dustin is sending me to an early grave. He and David have just never clicked. And now he’s in the you’re-not-my-real-father stage.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, where is Dustin’s biological father?”
Leah pinches the bridge of her nose. “He, umm, died. A long time ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” Leah sighs and clinks her nails against her wineglass. “It was suicide. I haven’t told Dustin yet. I know I should, but I just can’t.” She sniffles. “On the one hand, I’m afraid he’ll be angry that I haven’t told him earlier, and on the other hand, I am terrified of giving him any ideas.”
I walk around the island and put my arms around her. I’ve never seen this side of Leah. Her Insta and Facebook posts are filled with sun-drenched, spotless rooms. Neat piles of laundry on her gleaming wood dining room table, shoes lined up by the door, or cute kid artwork. A Pinterest-perfect suburban life. Nothing that would hint at mental illness, loss, troubled teens.
But that’s the thing about social media—it’s a curated version of reality.
Or a completely warped one, in the case of my fake accounts.
Behind us, a voice calls hello, and I turn to see Daisy. She’s in full Realtor mode, in a smart charcoal-gray pantsuit, her wild blond hair barely contained in a chignon.
“You guys okay?” She puts her briefcase on the island. “What’d I miss?”
Leah steps back and wipes her eyes. “I told Allie about Dustin’s dad. And how I feel like a shitty mom that I haven’t told him the truth.”
“Oh, sweetie, you’re not a shitty mom.” Daisy frowns. “If it makes you feel any better, Gabriella walked out of Earth Science yesterday and took an Uber to Montgomery Mall.”
Leah puts her hand to her mouth. “No, she didn’t.”
“She did. And she used her dad’s credit card to rack up four hundred dollars in charges at Nordstrom, thank you very much. Guess who had to leave work to pick her up when mall security called? Not her mom. Not her dad. No, moi, her evil stepmother.”
Leah holds up her glass. “Here’s to the shitty things that happen to good people.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, raising my glass.
“Allie,” Daisy says, turning her full attention to me. “What the heck is going on? I cannot believe that Patch story.”
“What Patch story?” I ask. All I know about Patch is that it is the local news website.
Daisy frowns and turns to Leah. “You didn’t tell her? I thought you told her.”
Leah shakes her head.
“Tell me what?” I ask.
Daisy pops open her computer and
