Her phone pings with a sound she’s never heard before, and she jumps slightly. It’s the Shadow app. The little notification badge beside the app icon indicates that there’s one new message, and Marin’s heart thumps as she clicks on it, afraid of what she’ll read but compelled to read it anyway. She added McKenzie to the app’s contacts list, so her name shows up just as it might on Derek’s phone. Assuming he’s programmed it under McKenzie’s actual name.
McKenzie: The train got in 10 mins early, so I got to work on time! Yay!! Super busy here, already slammed with customers. Boo!! Miss you already. Text me later.
Marin exhales. That wasn’t so bad. The younger woman could have said something sexual or explicit. Although, upon reflection, this might be worse. Her text reads like the kind of lighthearted everyday exchange she would have sent her … boyfriend.
Marin needs to see her. She knows exactly where the Green Bean is, is pretty certain she’s stopped in for a latte at some point in the past. She could go there right now. Introduce herself to the bitch. Confront her. Make a scene. Embarrass her in front of her coworkers. Scratch her pretty eyes out.
It’s a terrible idea, of course. Marin’s filled with caffeine and pent-up rage-fueled adrenaline, and perhaps this isn’t the best time to publicly scream at her husband’s young lover. She should wait until Derek is home, talk to him first, find out his side of things, find out how he feels about this girl. Maybe it’s not a relationship. Maybe it’s just sex. A man has needs, sweet Simon had said yesterday.
No offense, but fuck you, Simon.
She’s in the car before she can change her mind. As she’s backing out of the garage, a text from Sal comes in.
Still alive?
Marin hits the brakes so she can type back a quick reply.
As alive as I’ve ever been.
Chapter 7
Marin catches a glimpse of pink hair and long limbs as soon as she walks in, but then the younger woman is gone, disappearing into the back room, both arms weighed down with trash bags.
The Green Bean Coffee Bar is enormous, more like a pub than a place that specializes in coffee. Like almost every coffee shop in the U District, it’s extremely busy, packed with tables full of college students, hipster professionals, and half a dozen aspiring writers who look as if they’re seriously questioning all their life choices. Marin knows she doesn’t fit in. Her heels are too high, her coat too tailored, her makeup too perfect. She looks like the owner of a high-end salon that caters almost exclusively to celebrities and wealthy women, which is exactly what she is. But she knows she looks good. And she needs to. It’s the only armor she has.
She is equal parts furious and terrified.
The smell of coffee permeates her nostrils. Some kind of lounge music, folksy guitar-and-vocals-only covers of Nirvana and Pearl Jam, is playing over the loudspeakers mounted throughout the coffee shop. She can see why this place is so popular; it’s expansive, but cozy. There’s a variety of table shapes and sizes—round tables that seat six, a rectangular table that seats twelve, square tables that can squeeze four. A couple of sofas and a gas fireplace line the side opposite the counter, and in the far corner, there’s a tiny stage with a chair, microphone, and amp set up. Signage at the front entrance announces live music on Friday and Saturday nights. She also read that the Cookie of the Day is oatmeal cranberry raisin.
Marin stands in line behind five other people, and the line moves slowly enough for her to almost talk herself out of this. Her heart pounds so hard in her chest, it’s painful. Her palms are sweating. She doesn’t see the other woman anywhere, but as she gets closer to the counter, there she is, appearing as if out of nowhere from whatever back room she’d disappeared into. She’s now one of three baristas behind the counter, moving quickly, limbs like a gazelle, her pink hair beachy-wavy and shoulder-length, her brown apron tied tight around her waist.
Derek’s lover. She really exists.
After what seems like an eternity, Marin steps up to the counter, half hoping someone else will end up taking her order. But of course not. McKenzie hands the customer in front of Marin a biscotti, then turns to her expectantly.
Even though Marin’s in heels, McKenzie is supermodel tall, and Marin feels short and squat and old, staring up into the face of her husband’s young mistress. It’s so different in person. On a computer screen, she was someone Marin could take down, gleefully, without reservation. Face-to-face, Marin can barely bring herself to make eye contact.
Their gazes meet, and Marin braces herself in anticipation of the other woman’s recognition, the look of horror or embarrassment or both, that’s certain to pass over her face before she can contain it.
But McKenzie Li’s expression doesn’t change. Her smile doesn’t wilt. Her cheeks do not flush. Her gaze remains steady.
“What can I get you?” she asks brightly.
Marin opens her mouth to speak. I want you to stop having sex with my husband. I want you to stay the hell away from him or I will kill you, you homewrecking whore.
The words don’t come out. Instead she hears herself say, in a perfectly pleasant voice, “Extra-large double shot soy milk sugar-free vanilla latte, no foam. And your cookie of the day.”
McKenzie scrawls letters onto a tall, skinny brown paper cup with a gold Sharpie. Her handwriting is artistic and effortless, with oversize letters that extend way past the borders of the little boxes printed on the side of the cup. She punches in the order. She tells Marin the total. She takes the ten-dollar bill Marin hands her, makes change, and says thank you when Marin dumps it all into the tip jar.
She hands over the cookie. “Your latte will be ready at the end of the counter. Enjoy.”
Marin steps to the side, clutching the cookie, still warm inside its waxy paper bag. Every movement makes her feel smaller, insignificant, useless. For six months, this woman has been sleeping with her husband. While Marin was grieving, blaming herself, beating herself up, and self-medicating with all manner of pharmaceuticals and alcohol, Derek’s been self-medicating with … her. Six months, and she has no idea who the hell Marin is.
Their eyes meet again when McKenzie hands over her latte a few minutes later. Still no sign of recognition, and a scene from one of her favorite movies, The Princess Bride, springs to mind. In it, Miracle Max says to Inigo, “I make him better, Humperdinck suffers?” And Inigo says, “Humiliations galore!”
The line used to make her laugh, and she can remember feeling excited to watch the movie with Sebastian one day; she was certain he would love it when he was old enough to get the jokes. It’s not funny anymore. Humiliations Galore—the title of her future memoir.
She takes her coffee and cookie and slinks over to a table by the window, sits facing the counter. She opens her computer, where the other woman’s Instagram photos are still up. Her husband’s mistress is slightly less perfect in person. Her pale pink hair, which appears shiny in pictures, looks drier and choppy in real life, and Marin can see a half inch of dark brown roots that have grown in. To get that specific shade of pink, her naturally dark hair would have first been bleached to a near-white blond, with the pastel pink added after, a process that’s very damaging. They carry a treatment at the salon that repairs hair bonds and restores shine. If they were friends, Marin wouldn’t have thought twice about bringing her a sample to try. But they aren’t friends.
They are enemies. Of the most mortal kind.
To anyone who might casually look over, Marin looks like any other person, sipping a coffee, catching up on work, looking up random stuff on the internet. Except it’s not “stuff.” She’s looking at pictures of the other woman when the other woman is right the fuck there, but she dares anyone who hasn’t been through this to judge her.
Unless it’s happened to you, you can’t possibly understand how this feels.
Everything Castro’s notes don’t say, McKenzie Li’s Instagram account does. She hashtags all her photos, telling the world that she’s an #artist, #booklove
r, and #tealover, and she drinks mostly #craftbeer when she’s out with friends. #BufordTheCat, some scraggly thing with giant ears and watery eyes, appears at least once a week (#adoptdontshop). She takes a ton of selfies, usually because she’s showing off a new #fleamarketfind outfit, or a new #hairspiration hair color, but it’s okay because they’re all hashtagged with #shamelessselfie just to make sure her followers know that she knows how narcissistic selfies are. Her favorite hobby is #repurposing old furniture, which she paints and sells through #FacebookMarketplace. She loves to #bingewatch #Netflix, and she seems to have no problems sharing the most mundane details of her life with complete strangers. Even the day she woke up #sick and her eyes were puffy and bloodshot—and she looked, quite frankly, terrible—she was #keepingitreal. And her followers loved it. That one photo got almost two thousand likes.
She has over fifty thousand followers. Fifty thousand people care about what McKenzie Li posts. The Instagram account for Marin’s salons, in comparison, has barely half that, and the business netted over three million dollars last year.
She is everything Marin resents about the younger generation.
Everything the woman does is documented online, except for her married lover. It must kill her that she can’t talk about him. But people wouldn’t like her so much if they knew who she really was, would they? There are hints here and there of someone special in McKenzie’s life, but they’re only hints.
Marin would be happy to suggest a few hashtags for her: #homewrecker, #whore, and #golddigger, for starters.
She has no appetite for the cookie. She takes a long sip of the latte. She can’t say if it’s good, because she can’t taste it. The metallic tang in her mouth won’t dissipate. Copper pennies, she’s learning, is what betrayal tastes like.
Her husband’s lover is now ten feet away from her at the coffee-fixing station, refilling the cream and the milk and the napkin dispensers. Marin’s body goes tense, and she holds her breath, waiting for McKenzie to look over and finally realize who she is. But the other woman never even glances in her direction. As if Marin’s not there.
As if Marin doesn’t exist.
But McKenzie had existed to Marin all along. On some level, she had known, but she just hadn’t wanted to see. Derek’s lover has been right under Marin’s nose for six months. She’s the reason he turns his phone away when he’s texting, the reason he travels twice as much as he used to, the reason Marin barely hears from him when he’s away.
But living in denial is easier than confronting it. Denial is a safe little bubble that protects your soft underbelly from things that scratch, bite, and burn.
Her phone pings, and it’s the Shadow app again. It’s going to be a while before she gets used to the sound. Derek has finally replied to McKenzie’s earlier text, and Marin feels a wave of nausea pass over her when she reads it.
Derek: Miss you too, babe. Today’s been a shitshow, could use some extra time tonight with my girl. I’ll be back in Seattle by 7, and I made a reservation at our favorite hotel, if you’re up for it … ☺
McKenzie: YES!!!!!
The younger woman’s smile stretches from ear to ear. It’s directed at no one in particular, and her obvious happiness is like a fist wrapped around Marin’s beating heart, squeezing it like a balloon. One squish for every exclamation mark.
Derek is supposed to be home later tonight. Does McKenzie understand that he has to lie to his wife in order to be with her? Does that bother her at all? Does she find that quality attractive in a man? Even if McKenzie doesn’t recognize Marin, she has to know he’s married. If she’s ever googled Derek—and what millennial wouldn’t have searched online for the person they’re sleeping with?—his company bio, which mentions Marin, would come up. And you know what else comes up?
News articles about their missing son. Fifteen months ago, it was the hottest story in the city. You can’t google Derek’s name or Marin’s without seeing a picture of Sebastian’s Missing Child poster within the first five hits.
#liar. #homewreckingwhore. #slut.
McKenzie is now five feet away, holding a coffee pot and chatting with a customer, a regular, based on the way they’re interacting. Marin’s tempted to take a picture and text it to Derek. No caption required. Let him look at it, have his heart jump into his throat when he realizes what he’s looking at, because it’s what his wife’s looking at. Wouldn’t that be something.
But she won’t.
“Top off?” the younger woman asks.
Startled, Marin slams her laptop shut before McKenzie can see that the computer screen is filled with pictures of her. With Marin seated, the other woman seems even taller and thinner. The light from the window illuminates her skin, which is fresh and unblemished. There’s a gentle smattering of freckles across her pert nose that Marin didn’t notice at the counter, and she’s wearing no makeup other than a rose-tinted gloss on her lips and a few swipes of mascara. She doesn’t need more than that. Her eyes are a golden brown. Shaped like a cat’s. Everything about her seems vibrant. Exotic.
She’s right in front of Marin now, holding the coffee pot with an expectant smile. Marin feels about as bland and invisible as she’s ever felt. And when their eyes meet yet again, it’s confirmed. She really has no idea who Marin is.
“I, uh, ordered a latte.” Marin feels her cheeks turning red, but if the other woman notices she’s blushing, she doesn’t act like it. Marin averts her eyes, looking down at her extra-large paper cup, now empty. Only crumbs remain from the cookie. She doesn’t remember finishing either, but apparently, she stress-consumed both while obsessing over McKenzie’s Instagram account.
“That’s okay. Anyone who sits here gets free drip if they want it.” McKenzie holds the pot up a little higher. “Just brewed. It’s our house blend, medium roast. Pretty much everybody likes it.”
Marin pushes her cup forward. Her hands are already shaking. She doesn’t need more caffeine, but she’s not planning to drink it. “Maybe just a little.”
The younger woman seems blissfully unaware of Marin’s discomfort as she pours, and her cheerfulness is both absurd and aggravating. Because Marin knows why she’s in such a good mood. She knows what the other woman’s plans are for later tonight. She knows McKenzie’s thinking about Derek.
Marin wants to jump up, grab the coffee pot, and throw it at her. She wants to hear the other woman scream in pain as the scalding liquid sears her pretty skin. She wants to claw at her hot, dripping face with her fingernails, scratching her eyes, tearing out her hair, so she can make her husband’s mistress as ugly on the outside as she is on the inside. Marin wants to ruin her life the way she is ruining Marin’s life, the way she is ruining Marin.
I hate you. I hate you so much.
Of course, she does none of this. She stays seated, patient, quiet.
“Beautiful ring.” McKenzie smiles at Marin’s hand. “If I ever get married, I’d want something just like that.”
It’s almost too much. Marin feels her rage growing. It takes every ounce of willpower she possesses not to punch the younger woman in her happy, smiling face.
You homewrecking whore stay away from my husband you slut you cunt you bitch I will murder you I will take the goddamned coffee pot out of your hands and smash it and peel your face off with the shards of glass …
But the thoughts are just thoughts, and by the time they pass, McKenzie is gone, her narrow hips sashaying away with the coffee pot. To hurt her, Marin would have to run after her, and she knows she would never do that. It isn’t who she is, because she’s too proper, too well-behaved, and her husband’s mistress’s public embarrassment would be a public embarrassment for herself.
Humiliations galore.
The Shadow app pings again. McKenzie just texted Derek a photo. The thumbnail is small and hard to see, but it’s clearly of a person. Marin’s breath catches, wondering if somehow McKenzie has sent Derek a photo of his wife, the same way Marin almost sent him a photo of his lover.
McKenzie: Snapped this before I left this morning. A little preview of what’s to come …
Marin clicks on the thumbnail and zooms in.
McKenzie is fresh out of the shower. The mirror is fogged up, the glass wiped just clean enough so that only her flat stomach and innie belly button are clear in the reflection. Still, her pale pink nipples are obvious, as is the flower tattoo that runs down the side of her body from breast to hip. Marin didn’t realize she had a tattoo—either she wasn’t looking closely enough, or the other woman doesn’t show it in her Instagram pics. And other than her head, she’s totally hairless.
They’re both waiting to see if Derek will respond. McKenzie is hovering by the cappuccino machine, phone in hand, until a customer approaches and she’s forced to put her phone away.
Nude selfies? Really? Does she stockpile them in her phone and send them out at opportune moments?
#ihateyou.
The Shadow app pings. McKenzie is still busy with her customer and can’t check her phone, so Marin gets to read her husband’s reply to his mistress before she does.
Derek: I am going to lick every inch of you.
Marin is going to kill her.
Chapter 8
“I know a guy,” Sal says to her a few hours later. “He’s a fixer, expensive as fuck, but there’ll be no trace of the bodies left when he’s done. Want his contact info?”
Sal Palermo isn’t even certain whether Marin is joking, but already he’s on her side. He gets her. On the surface, it seems like they have nothing in common. He’s an ex-convict, a casual drug dealer (he’s always got Oxy and Vicodin and can procure three different kinds of marijuana on short notice), and a shady bar owner. Once upon a time, they dated pretty seriously, for a year, in college. More than two decades later, they’re still best friends. He’s the man she’s always loved but was never in love with, whose heart she never meant to break when they were only twenty-one.
Little Secrets Page 7
