"That," Elaine said, "is the saddest sentence I've ever heard."
She pulled a dress off the rack. Deep green, soft fabric, the kind of cut that suggested a person with somewhere to be. "This would look great on you."
I protested, but she grabbed two dresses for herself and hauled me to the dressing room.
I knew it was magic as soon as I pulled it over my head and it floated down my Mom bod. For a few disorienting seconds, I didn't recognize the woman looking back—mostly because she wasn't wearing capris.
"It's gorgeous," I admitted. "But I can't right now. It's not in the budget."
"I thought you said Warren got a new car."
"He did, but I'm sure he got a deep discount on it."
"So? It's not right that your ex is driving around in a hella expensive sports car and you're wearing clothes from Sears."
"I miss Sears."
Elaine appeared in the mirror behind me, arms crossed, doing her VP face. "You cannot spend the rest of your lifedressed like you're a chaperone on a field trip. You're allowed to want things."
"But—"
"It's on sale," she said, already heading for the register with it. "Forty percent off. I'm basically saving money by buying it for you."
"That's not how—"
"Don't ruin this for me."
I let her. Arguing with Elaine in a department store is its own kind of exhausting cardio.
But later, walking out with that bag swinging against my leg, I felt a little giddy.
July 4, Saturday
OUR NEIGHBORHOODdoes the Fourth of July like it's a competitive sport and I was late to the game. Because Warren was too busy with a holiday sales-palooza at the dealership, I'd shuttled Josh and his friends to their soccer game, doled out a thousand bottles of Gatorade, and sweated my butt off in the bleachers rooting them to an anticlimactic tie. By the time I dragged my folding chair onto the Wilsons' lawn that sported three pop-up canopies, dusk was descending. A Bluetooth speaker played patriotic music at stadium volume. I'd left Tucker at home wearing a thunder vest, with a frozen Kong toy, in case the fireworks spooked him. I was kind of jealous, but I knew from the books I'd read that after a divorce, it was important to maintain traditions.
Lily and Scott had claimed a blanket at the edge of the yard, close enough that I could keep half an eye on them and far enough that they clearly hoped I wouldn't. There is a specific amount of PDA acceptable at a family event, and they were walking the line.
Josh had vanished into a pack of boys near the Pattersons' driveway, all hunched over someone's phone, probably watching World Cup replays. Occasionally one of them erupted in a cheer.
I settled into my chair between two cul-de-sac neighbors, Donna and Pam and Renee, who greeted me with the warmth of people standing six inches farther away than they used to. Pleasant. Friendly. It was as if they were afraid divorce was contagious.
I'd convinced myself I was being paranoid when Meg White descended on me.
Meg lives two streets over and was so immersed in neighborhood gossip, she'd been dubbed Megaphone. Weweren't on hugging terms, yet she threw her arms around me and rocked side to side.
"Isabel. Oh my good gosh. I heard about you and Warren—I amsosorry. And that he was cheat—er, seeing someone else. Did you know?"
The fireworks hadn't started yet, but I felt several go off in my chest. I wasn't fast enough on my feet to refute the gossip. "No," I murmured.
"Oh, honey." Meg squeezed my arm, her face arranging itself into an expression of deep, performative sympathy. "The wife's always the last to know. Always."
I looked around the circle of lawn chairs. Donna was suddenly very interested in her paper plate. Pam was squinting at the sky as if willing the show to hurry the hell up.
"Wait—did you guys know?" I asked, incredulous. I'd run into Donna and Pam a half dozen times during and since the divorce and they'd acted as if they were astonished that Warren and I would split. Neither of them answered. The Bluetooth speaker chose that moment to land on a particularly enthusiastic cymbal crash.
Finally, Renee—who I'd brought a casserole to after her nose job, for the record—said gently, like she was doing me a favor, "I mean, there were rumors. Didn't you ever think it was a little strange when he suddenly started going to the gym at six in the morning?"
I had, in fact, thought it was strange. I'd also thought it was nice—I'd genuinely believed my husband was trying to take care of himself. When I'd found out about Warren's affair, I'd felt like the world's biggest fool, and now I felt ten times the fool.
