chapter twenty-six
Olivia
I married Adam when I turned twenty-five and got pregnant on our honeymoon.
Life became a whirlwind of work at the gallery, late-night dinner parties with a mix of interesting, eclectic people culled from both the business and art worlds, and settling into the role of wife and prospective mother. Since graduation, I felt as if I kept being pushed forward with a momentum that held no pause for reflection. I’d given up a quieter life of contemplation, thought, and figuring out who I wanted to be for a dynamic lifestyle with my husband in the center of it all. He quickly climbed the ranks to work as a top-level manager with a team beneath him. He went on multiple business trips, recruited sharp new minds for the company, and created a reputable name for himself in many circles.
Being in his presence brought a vibrant excitement of possibilities—the primary traits that had made me fall in love with him. He was the opposite of Rafe—a man of the world and its trappings, with an enthusiasm for a diverse crowd of people, opportunities, and adventure. I felt lucky to be his partner and swept up in a world I used to feel so uncomfortable in. Now I was the queen to his king, being invited to art exhibits and cocktail parties and mingling with important people in all industries. When I looked at Adam from across the room, usually surrounded by a fascinated crowd of people—including gorgeous women—he’d meet my gaze and smile intimately, reminding me I was the one he loved and wanted. We’d become a power couple, and I was a bit giddy from the ride. It was as if I was living my own chapter of Camelot.
We moved out of our apartment and bought a big house in Westchester, right on the seams of the city. It was a short commute to New York City but gave us a real lawn and backyard to raise our son or daughter. I made arrangements to take a short leave of absence from my job, planning to go back part-time until I found my footing. I’d never thought of settling down so early—I felt as if my career was just beginning to take off—but Adam was completely supportive of my choice to work and raise the baby.
Priscilla Avery Clayton was born on a cold winter’s night on February 13. When I first held her and looked into her wide, confused blue eyes I knew my life would forever change. I studied her flushed pink, wrinkled skin, her tiny rosebud mouth that emitted the shrillest of screams, the frustrated fly of her fists when she wanted to feed, and tumbled into a passionate, raw, emotional love I’d never experienced.
I was a mother. A new part of me emerged—one full of protectiveness, fear, and a desperate need to make sure she had everything she ever wanted. It went beyond physical; I became obsessed with checking on her constantly at night to make sure she was breathing. Adam wanted to begin getting back to our normal social life and kept pushing me to find a sitter, but I had no interest in squeezing back into fashionable clothes and chattering about things that made no sense to me in my new world. I would rather read baby books, take Pris for walks in the stroller, and prepare organic baby food so she got all her nutrients.
I put off returning to work, and time began to blur—the days and nights filled with caring for Pris. Adam began to blame me for how I changed. He wanted the woman I was before, the adventurer who adored travel and dinner parties and interesting, academic conversations. But I blamed him for becoming a father and not even recognizing how this tiny human had changed everything. How could he sleep the same and focus completely on his job? How could he not feel like his purpose and reality had blown up to new proportions but, somehow, become better?
We began to fight. He spoke about the economy and questioned the burgeoning graffiti artists suddenly becoming so popular. I talked about Pris’s new word she uttered or the expression on her face when she saw the next-door neighbor’s new puppy. He wanted more sex, but the exhaustion of my routine, and the changes in my body, made me dread his increasing demands and pouty rants. I finally convinced Adam I needed to quit my job and be a full-time mother.
As time passed, I enrolled Pris in Mommy and Me groups and then ballet classes, and fell into a new world. Adam seemed to move further away. It was as if we began circling each other instead of connecting, except when he wanted sex. And even then, I felt as if something was missing between us, making me pull back from him even more. I tried to talk to him, but he only accused me of becoming one of those obsessed moms who’d become boring and one-dimensional.
It hurt. I tried to get him more involved with his daughter. I knew he loved her—I clearly watched his expressions and laughter when he held or played with her, or actually came home to sit with us at dinner. But then he was off again, his attention fading away, and he’d hand her over and leave the room, both of us forgotten.
I began to think about Rafe more often. His face would float in my mind, and I wondered what he’d think of Pris. Was he married now with his own children? Was he happy? Did he ever think of me? I toyed with writing to him again, just to see how he was. His memory kept me company late at night, while my husband snored beside me, the physical space between us so much more than in bed. I’d tucked Rafe’s letters away in an old antique trunk I kept hidden at the back of my closet under some bedding. Sometimes, I’d take them out, smooth the crinkled paper, and reread them. I’d remember that young girl who loved so passionately and fully. I’d savor the innocence and purity of what we had throughout those summers, and how he’d changed me into a better person.
But there could be no regrets, because Pris was the greatest gift I’d ever been given.
Still, guilt pricked when his memory took the place of Adam. I wanted another baby, but Adam remained resistant, afraid I’d fall even further away from him and too deep into Mommyland. I made a decision to try to repair the breaks within my marriage. Slowly, I began to meet him halfway, agreeing to a regular babysitter so we could go out on Friday nights. I exercised and lost some weight so I could get back into my old clothes. I flipped through glossy art magazines and began sketching again. I stopped reading Rafe’s letters and made a conscious effort to push his memory out of my brain. And by the time Pris turned four years old, I felt as if our marriage was beginning to heal. We grew closer day by day and I had hope we were stitching back the loose threads to make us whole again. Even our lovemaking held the depth it had when we first fell in love. I was finally beginning to be truly happy again.
Until the day I found out Adam was having an affair.
chapter twenty-seven
Dev
Bailey had slept with Hawke last night.
And Dev was about to lose it.
The frustration and anger whipped up inside her, ready to explode, like she’d just swallowed a Mentos and washed it down with Coke. She’d heard her sister sneak in way past midnight, just like she had when she was young. Bailey couldn’t be quiet if she tried. The rest of the night Dev spent tossing and turning and stewing.
Why was she so pissed about it?
They were both single. Both available. Both attractive. It would be weirder if they didn’t have an attraction to someone on this vacation. Maybe she was a bit jealous because Hawke intrigued her, and it was yet another conquest her sister would never appreciate. But as the darkness ticked toward dawn, Dev realized it was much bigger than that.