“This is not a competition. They are people. They are my daughters. You need to go.” I walked to the door, and thankfully, this time she followed.
She picked up her bags and walked out to the porch.
“Goodbye, Gen.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “This isn’t over.”
I shut the door. Yes, it is.
39
BILLIE
By three p.m.,the bridal shop was empty of customers the only sound coming from the light hum of the steamer in the alteration’s alcove. I pretended to review the day’s invoices in my office, but my eyes kept darting up to the oversized clock above my door, where the second hand made its little jerky revolution.
If I were still living with Adam, I would be pulling up to the elementary school now, wedging my car between a silver Toyota Sienna and the deeply dented Odyssey that always seemed to materialize first in the pick-up lane. Andi would already be watching for me, her backpack on, standing on the footprints painted on the sidewalk, while Joey would be weaving her way through the line, having negotiated trades of her unopened string cheese for someone’s Cheez-Its or Goldfish.
Instead, I was in my office, staring at my computer, the scent of lavender essential oils and the faintly metallic tang of steam. I wondered if they’d had a good day. If the twins remembered to hand in the permission slips for the conservatory field trip. If Andi got moved to the advanced reading group. If Joey were still insisting on eating only jelly and pickle sandwiches for lunch, which she’d started after finding out her dad used to eat them.I wondered if Mrs. McDonald was actually letting Andi use the restroom when she needed to go.
Also, I wondered why Adam hadn’t called.
Every day this week, I’d pulled out my phone dozens of times to reach out to him. I’d type out a text, then delete it, then scroll to his contact to call, then put my phone down. I’d check the cloud-based school portal and my email just to see if there was any communication from him. But there wasn’t. Not a word. Not a single photo of the girls, not even an emoji.
It was like I was out of sight, out of mind for him.
The sound of the door chime at the front barely registered, I was so deep in my own spiral it could have been a tornado siren and I wouldn’t have moved. Birdie appeared in the doorway, balancing a mug that said “Brides are my Tribe” in one hand and swatch samples in the other.
“Okay, I’ve tried to stay out of it, but you haven’t left your office for lunch in five days.” She sat across from me with her usual grace. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lied, but Birdie’s gaze was the kind that could see through drywall. She set the swatches down and waited, her foot tapping an erratic Morse code against the tiles.
“I’m fine,” I doubled down and then, because the room was too quiet, added, “I promise.”
She reached over and nudged my phone with her knuckle, the way you’d poke a shell to check if there was a hermit crab inside. “Is it Adam? The girls?”
I wanted to tell her no, that I was a fortress, impervious and had zero emotional attachment to them. But I wasn’t. I was a sandcastle, and every minute felt like a new wave.
“Is it because his girlfriend is back in town?”
“His girlfriend?” I was his wife, technically, I should know if he had a girlfriend.
“Genesis Milan, she is in San Francisco. I figured that’s why you moved back to your place.”
I shook my head. “No, I told you. I moved back because Adam’s better and there’s been no more incidents.” I paused, still trying to process the information I’d just been given. “Wait, how do you know Genesis is here?” Because I certainly wasn’t aware.
“It’s been online and all over her social media.”
She pulled her phone out and scrolled through something with the flicky, hyper-efficient movements of a professional blogger who could probably launch a shuttle mission while steaming a ball gown. She turned her phone around and presented the screen to me, thumb poised like a magician’s reveal.
It was Genesis Milan’s Instagram page.
The top post was a filtered selfie of Genesis on a cable car, latte in hand, her perfectly tousled hair catching the late-morning light. The caption: “San Francisco = DESTINY. #GIJOE” Then she turned it back around tapped on the screen and when she flipped it back there were paparazzi photos of Genesis kissing Adam at his front door.
A sour taste rose in my throat and I wanted to throw up.
I stared at it for a long time, not moving. I didn’t even know she was in town. The fact that Adam hadn’t called suddenly felt less like an oversight and more like a message written in flaming skywriting. I imagined Genesis walking the waterfront with the twins, teaching them about macrobiotic snack options and Italian fashion. I pictured her doing the girls’ hair at night, tucking them into bed, and putting on their Band-Aids when they scraped their elbows and knees.
We sat in silence as my heart knocked against my ribs so hard, I wondered if it was going to leave a bruise. I tried to focus on the twinkle of light through the showroom window, orthe faint scent of fabric softener lingering in the air from the morning’s fresh delivery, but my mind kept circling the same drain: Genesis was here. Adam was with her. The girls—my girls—were with her, too.
