Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty

by Lauren Weisberger

  “There’s something you need to know,” Peyton said, rushing to tell them before Nisha cut her off. “It was actually—”

  “Nope!” Nisha’s voice was raised to nearly a shout. “I do not need to know whatever it was you were about to tell me. Ajit doesn’t need to know. Not to put too fine a point on it, but we refuse to know.”

  Peyton exhaled.

  “Let me just point out a few facts,” Nisha said, latching Teddy onto her other breast. “Whichever one of you—and I am forbidding you from telling me—did the actual communicating with the college fixer is somewhat immaterial. The public will assume that as a married couple you acted together, or at the very least knew of each other’s actions.”

  “But that’s—” Isaac started to speak, but the intensity of Nisha’s glare stopped him mid-sentence.

  “I’ll just point out a few obvious things here. The amount of money alleged is somewhat small in relation to some of the other admissions arrests—that’s the bit of good news. Also good is that it was a one-time check, which is a lot easier for a judge to swallow than an ongoing program of lying or cheating, as we saw a couple years ago with those accused who falsified photos, hired test stand-ins, et cetera. Obviously, no one can predict the future, but if I had to guess, I would say you—Isaac—will be looking at one of the more lenient sentences. A few weeks, perhaps a couple months at most if the judge has a hard-on for this sort of thing. Certainly, hundreds of hours of community service and a fine, but I’m sure you know that.”

  Peyton felt her eyes widen. Perhaps it hadn’t been ethical, that much she could admit. But she truly didn’t believe it was illegal, considering it seemed like something people did, in one form or another, all the damn time.

  “You look surprised?” Nisha asked.

  “I just…you really think there’s a…I mean, jail?” Peyton prided herself on being succinct and articulate, but it felt like her brain had narrowed to a single, dark tunnel.

  “I can’t tell you what to do, but I can point out this: regardless of whose idea this was—and again, I do not want to know—I can tell you that Isaac has significantly less to lose, professionally speaking. Peyton, were you to be officially implicated, never mind convicted, I think it’s not an overstatement to say you would never work again.”

  “This just all seems like…such an overreaction,” Peyton said, but no one else acknowledged it.

  “So, what are you saying?” Isaac asked, his voice breaking slightly. “Just give it to us straight.”

  Peyton’s mouth was suddenly so dry she could barely swallow.

  Ajit had taken up an interest in a loose thread on his jeans pocket.

  Nisha peered at them both. “Isaac, you acted one hundred percent alone. It would also help, significantly I think…” Nisha paused here, as though she knew the next part would be the hardest to hear. “…if the two of you were to separate—for the sake of appearances only, of course—until this is resolved.”

  No one spoke.

  Ajit tore at the thread.

  Peyton tried to wet her lips, but her tongue felt like sandpaper.

  Even Teddy had stopped nursing and had fallen into a deep, silent sleep.

  “I think you both need to keep in mind that there are two battles we’re facing here: the legal one, of course, but also the one on social media. Think whatever you will about cancel culture, but it’s real and it’s vicious. This case will be tried by the media, by the bloggers, by the influencers and the randoms who sit anonymously behind their keyboards. And they are typically not so forgiving. Peyton, regardless of what you did or didn’t do—and I repeat, I don’t want to know—you will want to be very, very careful.”

  “Exactly how?” Peyton asked quietly.

  “Separate, first and foremost. Do not be seen in public together, no matter what. Then we should probably get you involved in some high-profile charity work, preferably education-related. You’ll also want to have your social media manager call me and we can go over some messaging.”

  Peyton swallowed hard, and only then noticed that her fingernails were digging into her palms. She knew what Nisha was saying was true, but worse than that was that none of them were even talking about Isaac—his life, his career, his reputation, all blown up because of something Peyton did.

  Finally, Isaac cleared his throat and stood. “Nisha, Ajit, thank you so much for your advice and your hospitality. I think we’ve taken up enough of your—please, don’t stand. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  Peyton felt a rush of relief that at least he’d said “we.” She kissed Nisha’s cheek and rubbed baby Teddy’s head.

  “Thank you,” Peyton whispered. She had so many more questions.

  “Stay strong, P. And remember, everyone makes mistakes. This is a particularly stupid one, I’m not going to lie. But this too shall pass.”

  “Did you really just say that?” Peyton asked, her eyes wide.

  Nisha, not ever one for physical affection, looked at Peyton and then pulled her into her arms. “You’re so strong, P, one of the toughest, most badass women I know. I’m not going to tell you that this will be easy, but it won’t be forever. Just promise me you’ll remember that, okay?”

  * * *

  —

  Nothing was working that night—nothing. Not the chamomile tea or the CBD gummy bears or those ridiculous homeopathic relaxation drops she bought by the carton at the Union Square farmers market. Not the hot bath or the steam shower or the forty-five minutes of mind-numbing pedaling Peyton had logged on the Peloton. She’d put back two glasses of pinot grigio and only had a headache to show for it. Ditto for the four squares of dark chocolate she’d ferreted out of her secret stash in the pantry freezer. If there was ever a night to smoke weed, this was surely it. But even the thought of taking a few hits from the pen a friend had given her sent her into paroxysms of paranoia. Why was she the only woman on the Upper East Side—hell, possibly the only woman in all of Manhattan—without a reliable source of Xanax? It was ridiculous. No one should have to face the last twenty-four hours without the very best.

  The night table clock screamed 1:06 a.m. She flipped onto her side, careful not to jostle Isaac, before realizing that he was still sleeping on the pull-out in his office. Peyton leaned over and rooted through her nightstand. Her hands closed around a blister two-pack of green NyQuil gel tabs, long expired. No matter, she thought, tearing it open, raccoon-like, with her teeth. She washed it down with the remnants of her wine and prayed to some unknown higher power, asking for sleep but pretty please not unintended death, à la Heath Ledger, who had made some unfortunate mixing choices but surely never meant to kill himself. Dear god, how would it look if she died in her own bed, the very next night after her husband was arrested? No one would ever believe it was unintentional. Max would think her own mother didn’t love her enough to stick around and see her through the rough times. Nisha would blame herself for coming down too hard. Skye would be devastated for the rest of her life that she hadn’t recognized the signs. And Isaac? Not only would he be carted off to jail for a crime he didn’t commit, but they’d surely throw in a murder investigation, because, well…dead wife.

  She collapsed against the pillow and closed her eyes. Per all of the “good sleep hygiene” articles she’d collected, her bedroom thermostat was set to 62 degrees, her custom-made blackout shades were securely closed, and two industrial-sized white-noise machines whirred from separate corners. Peyton pulled up her covers, which were the finest feather down, and tried to breathe slowly. Three counts inhale, five counts exhale, just as all the apps advised. The fucking breathing was making her even more anxious. Was she doing it right? Why couldn’t she stay committed long enough to anything to make it an actual habit? All the time downloading these apps, everything from macro tracking to sleep hygiene to step counting. But did she stick to any of it? Show it the kind of ruthless comm
itment she showed her work? Absolutely not. It was always just another half-assed attempt at what she secretly hoped would be a quick fix. Obviously, something was wrong with her brain. Or her personality. What was the definition of insanity? Lying in place, hour after hour, staring, and waiting for sleep, when all you wanted to do was leave that prison of a bed.

  Prison. She thought of Isaac sleeping on the pullout, undoubtedly unconscious. No matter the current hell that had recently defined his every waking hour. No drugs needed, no breathing exercises, no complicated accoutrements. He only needed to rest his head, close his eyes, and embrace the deep, beautiful sleep that effortlessly followed. Peyton had been wildly jealous of his sleeping gift since the very beginning of their relationship, when she still pretended to be normal. Back then she would snuggle next to him and quietly wait for him to fall asleep before climbing out of bed to pace the apartment. Now she went straight to pacing.

  Why wasn’t that damn NyQuil working? she wondered.

  A wave of nausea washed over her. They were going to treat him like a felon! Her husband. Never mind he hadn’t actually done anything wrong—that was bad enough. But didn’t anyone understand that Isaac cried while watching Parenthood, for god’s sake? How could you put a man like that in jail? The one who never rolled through stop signs or skipped a Sunday night call to his ninety-eight-year-old grandmother. How many times had Peyton tried to go through the E-ZPass lane without an E-ZPass while driving a rental car? Or made it out to the parking lot before noticing the case of water underneath her shopping cart that she hadn’t paid for—and hadn’t gone back inside? Or—she flushed even thinking about this one—pretended not to notice an elderly person on the packed subway car so she wouldn’t have to be the one to volunteer her seat? If anything, she was a deficient human being with a lack of integrity. But Isaac? He was the type who paid his taxes not out of fear of reprisal, but because it was his duty as an income-earning citizen. He overtipped and under-complained. He showed up! At every funeral, at every bris, at every school play and field hockey game and insignificant classroom celebration. He was her moral compass, and she was sending him to jail.

  Enough. She couldn’t take another second of the mental looping. She suddenly remembered the banana muffins Nisha had insisted she take home. Peyton sat up and felt a stab of pain near her ankle.

  “Dammit!” she scream-whispered. She thrust her leg straight, half expecting the Land Shark to be swinging by his teeth from her flesh, but he hadn’t even left a mark. The dog was a fucking expert-level abuser. Her phone buzzed from the pocket of her robe as she padded down the hallway to the kitchen.

  You up? From Skye.

  Obv, Peyton replied, sticking one of the muffins into the microwave.

  You okay?

  The thought of typing suddenly seemed overwhelming, so Peyton dialed her sister.

  “Why are you awake?” she asked Skye, her voice low, although she knew there probably wasn’t a reason. They’d both been insomniacs from childhood, a genetic gift from their mother.

  “The usual. You?”

  The microwave beeped. Peyton pulled out the muffin and started to slather it with peanut butter. “Mmm, same,” she said, through a huge bite. “Is that Mr. Big I hear?”

  Skye snorted. “Who else? I will forever contend that ‘To Be With You’ is one of the best songs ever written.”

  With this, Peyton couldn’t keep herself from laughing. “It’s one-thirty in the damn morning and you’re listening to Mr. Big and what? Feeling understood?”

  “Do you remember the first time Mom let us go to a concert alone together? We told her it was James Taylor, even played her ‘You’ve Got a Friend’ so she wouldn’t worry, and then we went to see Guns N’ Roses?”

  “Remember? It was one of the best days of my life. When they played ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ and Axl swung his hair around and Slash lit his guitar on fire…it was the sexiest thing I think I’d ever seen.”

  “Bieber and Swift really can’t compete,” Skye said. “So…any update on sick people?”

  Peyton pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “I recognize that you’re trying to distract me from thinking about Isaac, and I appreciate it. Let’s see, Brad’s wife published an update on CaringBridge today since I think he was still too groggy from the surgery.”

  “Which one’s Brad again?”

  “The high school boyfriend of my best camp friend’s best friend. Do you remember Erin from Camp Everest? Well, her best friend used to date Brad.”

  Who else would understand why she carefully tracked the medical progress of complete strangers? For years she’d figured she was alone in carefully reading about, tracking, and researching the horrible diseases and misfortunes that afflicted people she’d never met. But Skye understood, because she did it, too.

  “And what’s the prognosis? They were waiting for pathology results, right?”

  “It’s not good. Glioblastoma. Stage four.”

  Skye whistled. “That’s extremely not good.”

  “Yeah, his wife says that they’re going to fly to Germany for some experimental treatment, but the life expectancy after diagnosis is like nine to twelve months.” Peyton stuck another muffin in the microwave.

  “I followed a young woman who was diagnosed the first week of her senior year of college and she was gone before graduation,” Skye said quietly.

  “Yes,” Peyton said, allowing herself to feel the pain and unfairness of dying so young, even if she’d never met either Brad or Skye’s young woman. After all, if she subjected herself to their pain—even a fraction of it, by proxy—then wouldn’t it somehow inoculate her family against getting the same disease? If she dove deep into someone’s profile who was fighting, or dying from, ovarian cancer or ALS or a brain tumor—really tried to understand and empathize with their suffering—didn’t it guarantee her own safety? At least from that particular horror. Which is why she read broadly and indiscriminately, following links on Facebook and Instagram to GoFundMe and CaringBridge. Her cameraman’s mother’s pastor who’d dropped dead three weeks after finding out he had pancreatic cancer. Her dry cleaner’s nephew whose undiagnosed melanoma had spread to his lungs and liver. The first cousin of one of her sorority sisters who’d become a paraplegic after diving into a shallow lake. And by far the worst ones of all, the ones she could barely read through her own choking tears: the children with bald heads and cartoon hospital sheets and sad smiles. It was twisted that she and Skye did this, wasn’t it? But there was some strange comfort in knowing she wasn’t alone.

  The microwave beeped, and this time Peyton dunked the muffin directly into the peanut butter jar.

  “How’s Isaac doing?” Skye asked.

  Peyton swallowed. She had to confide in Skye and tell her that it was she, not Isaac, who had gotten them into this horror show. They may not be able to tell anyone else, but Skye would understand. Would she be judgy and patronizing? Undoubtedly. But this wasn’t the kind of secret she could keep from her sister. She would tell her, Peyton promised herself, before they hung up.

  “He’s okay, all things considered,” Peyton said, trying to clear the peanut butter from the roof of her mouth.

  She heard a splashing sound. “Are you peeing?”

  “Sorry,” Skye said. “And how’s Max? We texted and she claims she’s fine, but my god—this is a national news story and it centers around her.”

  Peyton took another bite and slowly chewed. “I wouldn’t say she’s great. I’m sure she’s obsessively reading all the coverage. We both keep trying to talk to her, but she flat out refuses.”

  “Thank god she’s already graduated. I can’t imagine how much harder this would all be if she were still at Milford, hemmed in by all that uniformity. It would be a nightmare.”

  Peyton rolled her eyes. Typical Skye, couldn’t ever resist a dig about Milford. “You live in
Paradise. You can hardly take the moral high ground here. But seriously, it might have been better if this had all happened while she was still there. That place specializes in parental scandal.”

  “Milford?”

  “I’ve seen noncustodial abductions, a dad who underwrote his kid’s cocaine-selling business, and not one but two fathers busted for patronizing high-class prostitutes.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Those weren’t even the interesting ones! I must have told you about the time they arrested the chauffeur of a fifth grader for traveling to Syria to attend a jihadi training camp? Oh! And there was a senior girl who apparently went on an extended European ‘spa retreat,’ and whose parents—at nearly fifty years old—coincidentally adopted a newborn at the same time because they ‘simply couldn’t resist.’ You know how it is—just a plethora of white, European babies waiting to be adopted, you know? And of course, all the run-of-the-mill financial crimes: fraud, money laundering, tax evasion. Even an insurance-related arson charge. Mail fraud is practically quaint.”

  “Sounds like a lovely community.”

  Peyton snorted. “Yeah, but at least it’s nothing that these kids haven’t seen a hundred times before.” Suddenly she felt dizzy and exhausted. “I think the booze and NyQuil are finally kicking in. I’m going to go.”

  “Booze and NyQuil? Should I be worried? Can’t you find something a little higher quality than that?”

  “Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be sitting in my kitchen at one a.m., huffing whole milk and peanut butter and talking to you.”

  Skye laughed. “Sleep well. I’ll keep my phone on in case you want to call back.”

  “Mmm,” Peyton whispered, as she padded down the hallway. “Sorry I didn’t ask about your life at all.”

  “No worries. A husband out on bail earns you one entirely selfish call.”