Page 12 of Cruel Lies

"Cali Bear!" she sing-songs. "I thought that was you. I almost didn't recognize you!"

That's a weird thing to say to a woman you've known since freshman year of college, when we shared a dorm room the size of a parking spot and a single working hot plate. But I let it slide, because it's Paula, and that's just how this space cadet lives her life. Rekindling our friendship is one of the few good things to come out of this whole school-pickup-line season of my life.

"Hey, you." I'm relieved to find I can still produce a smile, even a battered one. "How's my kiddo? Did he superglue anyone to anything today?"

"He was a perfect baby angel, as always. Which makes sense, given who his mama is." She rests her forearms on my window frame and leans in to touch my hair. "I mean, my gosh, look at you? Have you lost weight? You look incredible. I need you to bring me to your Pilates class, like, ASAP, queen."

I frown. Not once in fifteen years of friendship has Paula ever commented on my weight. Not when I gained the freshman fifteen, not during either pregnancy, not after. It's a sort of unspoken pact between us, born of the fact that Paula has the metabolism of a hummingbird and the bone structure of a gazelle, and I… do not. She has always,alwayshad the decency to never mention the disparity.

What's changed?

"Oh, uh, thanks," I say. "I've been trying, I guess."

"Well, it's working." She reaches in and squeezes my shoulder. "You're straight-up glowing. Honestly, I'm jealous. I've been wanting to lose, like, five pounds before summer break, but I just can't seem to find the discipline."

She may be my best friend, but I still have to suppress the urge to laugh out loud. Five pounds? On her? Where on her body, precisely, will she lose that weight from? Her long, flowing mane of blonde hair?! The girl is a willowy supermodel, with a waist like a toothpick and gravity-defying boobs that are, against all odds, natural.

A little flag goes up in the back of my brain. Not red yet. Just a sort of curious, fluttering beige.

"Paula," I say, "you weigh approximately as much as one of Isabella's American Girl dolls. You do not need to lose five pounds."

She laughs brightly and bats the compliment. "Oh, shut up. You can't be skinnyandnice. That's too much."

Funny—I could say the same thing about her. But God gives to some people with both hands, as they say, and Paula has been this effortless ray of beautiful, bodacious sunshine for as long as I've known her, so I guess that's just how it goes.

What I need right now is not envy, though. I just need a kind heart, a listening ear, and maybe a shoulder or two to cry on.

And who better than Paula? She's my best friend. For goodness' sake, she slept on the floor of my hospital room after Isabella was born when Todd had to go back to work. She'll hear me out and make me feel better, and then she'll know exactly what to do next.

Yeah. I'll just tell her. It's better just to come out and say it, I think. Rip the Band-Aid off.

"Hey, Paula, can I—" I clear my throat so I stop sounding so wobbly and teary. "Can I tell you something? Something kind of awful? I think… I think that maybe… that Todd might be…"

I bend toward her, just slightly, the way you lean toward someone you're about to hand a piece of your broken heart that you also don't want any of these Range-Rover-driving Upper West Side moms to overhear.

And that's when I smell it.

Floral. Warm. A little powdery, with something sweet underneath it, like vanilla or spun sugar.

It's pretty. Truly lovely.

It's also familiar. I know why: because I had my face buried in it just a few hours ago, on my husband's pillow.

Time does something strange. It doesn't stop, exactly. It just sort of folds in on itself, like how the duvet was folded, hospital corners and all.

I look up at Paula and see so many things that I somehow missed before.

Her hair—honey blonde, thick, glamorous. The kind of color that takes a gift from God or three hundred dollars and four hours in a salon chair.

Her lips. The exact muted mauve-pink of the crescent on my praying mantis mug.

I look at the French manicure on the fingers still resting on my window frame.French-tipped nails raking down my husband's back.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Oh, no, no, no.