Page 31 of Play Nice

“I don’t understand. The water was black, like tar.”

He looked at me like I was crazy. “If you’re worried about it, don’t let your daughters drink from the tap.”

“Clio?”

“That’s me!” I say, snapping out of my head, which is stuck in Mom’s book, which is back at my apartment, hidden under my pillow, because it feels wrong to have it, to read it. Because I said I never would.

Veronica puts her arm around my waist and pulls me into her. “Let’s go dancing.”

“I know just the place,” I say, taking her hand and leading her to Second Avenue.

“By the way, what happened with you and Ethan? I saw you leaving my launch together.”

“Nothing. I’m keeping him on ice.”

“Laurie always said he was good in bed.”

“I don’t trust Laurie’s standards. Think of the lipsticks.”

Veronica laughs, stumbling into me.

I take her to SMOKE—a dive bar with a not-so-secret basement club. The dance floor is sticky, as are the velvet couches pressed up against the concrete walls, and the lighting sucks, but the DJ is great. It’s packed like a Saturday night on a Thursday night, and everyone here is hot and smells like Santal 33.

The music is so loud I can’t think, and it’s a blessing. A most welcome escape.

We drink vodka tonics and run up a tab that Veronica pays for. We dance together, and she keeps stroking my collar bones, my chest, where the charm rests. The snake with shining eyes.

“I love it on you!” she shouts over the thumping bass.

“I love it on me, too!” I shout back.

“Everything looks good on you,” she says, her arms around my neck. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, but you’re on me,” I say.

“Then I must look good.”

Later, when I kiss her on the street, she suddenly turns shy.

“I can’t,” she says, pulling away. “Johnny.”

Her boyfriend.

Normally, I wouldn’t care. I’ve historically kept a pretty laissez-faire attitude about cheating. Monogamy is for suckers. And yet, after resurfacing my mother’s claim that my father stepped out on her with Amy, a claim I’d never previously given any real consideration because it’s one he so adamantly denied, infidelity has suddenly become a more sensitive subject. One I’d rather avoid. Because now, as a world-wise adult, I’m confronting the legitimate possibility that my dad and Amy are committed, perpetual liars. Of course they would deny it. They have nothing to gain by admitting guilt and everything to gain by stripping my mother of all credibility.

Veronica giggles, touching her lips. Then she turns around and pukes all over the sidewalk.

I get us an Uber and drop her off first in Boerum Hill. When I get back to my apartment, I change into sweatpants and a tank top, eat cold lo mein on my couch, and wait for the world to stop spinning.

I consider calling Ethan, since he’s been oh-so eager, or any one of my reliable hookups to come over and distract me. To stop me from doing what I’ve been doing, from crawling into bed with a version of the past—my past—that doesn’t belong to me.

But I’ve never been any good at controlling my impulses. It’s not in my nature. Apparently, it’s genetic.

Weeks passed without incident, and we began to settle in, establish a new routine. The girls and I built forts out of old blankets and duct tape and cardboard boxes left over from the move. Our most impressive fort was surprisingly sturdy and comfortably fit all four of us, so I allowed them to leave it up indefinitely.

Then one night, after I’d put my daughters to bed, I was alone on the couch reading a magazine, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the blanket draped over the entrance to the fort pull back. A second later, the fabric released, sweeping down, concealing the interior of the fort.

It was Us Weekly. It had Britney Spears on the cover. This was shortly after she shaved her head. The world will drive a woman insane, then point at them and laugh.