"How did she know?" My voice comes out strangled. "How did she know anything? I didn't tell anyone. We didn't announce anything. How?—"
"I don't know. But it doesn't matter. You don't owe her anything."
"But if she knows, then everyone knows. Or they will. And then I'll have to—I can't—" The panic is rising, hot and suffocating. "I can't do this. I can't come back here. What if she comes back? What if there are more of them?"
"Then we'll handle it."
"No." I'm backing toward the door. "No, I can't. I can't be here. I can't?—"
Jamie calls after me but I'm done. I drive back to her condo and lock myself in. That night, I lie awake thinking about the reporter. About how she knew. About who else might know. About the possibility of running into Asher at the grocery store or the coffee shop or anywhere. About encountering people from his world—the board members, the society wives, the people who came to our wedding and smiled and congratulated us while I had no idea it was all a lie.
What would they say? Would they ask about the divorce? Would they pretend they didn't know? Would they judge me? Pity me? I can't face it. Any of it. That's when I really start to spiral because I realize I'm trapped. Again.
I can't go to work because of the reporter. I can't go home because the house is a crime scene of memories. I can't go out because I might run into someone who knows. I can't stay in Seattle because everywhere I look, I see Asher. His world. His lies. I'm suffocating. In my next session with Dr. Blanche, I tell her everything.
"I feel like I'm in a cage," I say. "Like the walls are closing in and I can't breathe and I don't know how to get out."
"What would getting out look like?" she asks.
"Leaving. Just... leaving. Going somewhere he isn't. Somewhere no one knows my story. Somewhere I can just exist without all of this pressing down on me."
"Have you thought about where you'd go?"
"Not really. Just... away."
Dr. Blanche is quiet for a moment. "I think that could be really healthy for you. As long as you're not running away from the work."
"I'm not," I say quickly. "I want to keep doing therapy. I need to keep doing therapy. I just... I need space. Physical space. Distance."
"We can do telehealth," she says. "If you have reliable internet, we can keep our sessions going remotely."
Relief floods through me. "Really?"
"Really. I think getting some distance might actually help you process everything. Give you perspective."
That night, I call my mom. She's on another cruise, part of her big retirement adventure, the one she's been planning for years. She’s been everywhere but is currently sailing to the Caribbean islands, then crossing the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. She's been sending me photos of turquoise water and ancient ruins and elaborate buffets.
"Sweetheart!" Her voice is bright when she answers. "I was just thinking about my girls. How are you?"
And I break. I tell her everything. The engineered meeting. The lies. The affair. The trust. The reporter. All of it. She listens without interrupting. And when I'm done, she's quiet for a long moment.
"I'm so sorry," she finally says. "Julie, I'm so, so sorry."
"I don't know what to do, Mom. I feel like I'm drowning."
"Where are you right now?"
"Jamie's condo. I've been staying here."
"And the house?"
"Listed. But it hasn't sold yet. I can't go back there. I tried and I just... I can't."
Another pause. Then: "Come meet me."
"What?"
"Come meet me. I'm in St. Thomas right now. The ship docks in San Juan tomorrow, then we head to Barbados. After that, we cross to Portugal. Come with me. Both legs if you want. Or just one. But come."
