“Complicated? It seems pretty simple to me.”
Peyton stood up and strode over to the closet, where she yanked out a small tote bag.
“You’re leaving?” Max asked.
“No! Look what I brought!” Her mom carried the tote over to Max’s bed and began to remove things one by one.
“Oh my god—are those what I think they are?” Max picked up a four-pack of chocolate-frosted cupcakes.
“They sure are. And I brought these, too.” Movie-theater-size bags of Sour Patch Kids, Raisinets, and Swedish Fish hit the bed.
“Are you sober?” Max asked, unable to believe what she was seeing.
“Not for long, I hope,” her mother answered, and produced a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. She held it aloft like a trophy.
“But I’m only seventeen!”
Her mother sighed. “I suppose most mothers would be happy their teenagers want to follow the alcohol laws.” She bounded off the bed once again and retrieved from the bathroom two water glasses and a washcloth. The cork popped off into the washcloth with only one twist, and they both cheered.
Max accepted a glass, examining the fizzy contents. “Heavy pour,” she said. “You’ve done this before.”
“Hah! There’s no reason on earth I can’t enjoy a little champagne with my beautiful daughter.”
“Except: underage,” Max said, grinning.
“What are they going to do?” Peyton said, clinking her glass with Max’s. “Arrest us?”
24
Lighten It Up
Peyton poured herself another cup of coffee and dialed Kenneth.
“Mr. Grinfeld’s office,” his assistant said brightly, even though she most certainly knew it was Peyton calling.
“Hi, Liz. Happy Monday! Is he available?”
“And who may I ask is calling?”
Peyton inhaled. “Just me, Peyton. Calling like I have every Monday morning for the last nine years!” She tried to keep her tone light.
“Of course, Peyton. Putting you through now.”
She waited at least two minutes, which was a minute and fifty-five seconds longer than normal.
“Peyton?” Kenneth boomed. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling for an update. You said you’d call by end of day Friday, but I never heard from you. Has there been any word from ANN?”
“Nothing yet. I have a call with Joseph scheduled for this afternoon, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”
Peyton realized that her fingernails were digging into her palms. “Oh? And why is that?”
“Nothing definite. Just a feeling. I’ll call you later today when I know more. Peyton? I hate to run, but I have to take this call.”
He hung up without saying goodbye.
She glanced at the microwave clock, which read 9:33 a.m. Sean would be done with the post-show meeting, but when she called, his phone went straight to voicemail.
“Hi, it’s me. Just wanted to check in, hear how everything’s going with you. Call me when you get a chance? Okay, bye!”
It was the second time she’d left a message; after the first, he’d texted her an apology, saying everything was “so crazy” and he’d get back to her as soon as he could.
Peyton was just about to call Nisha when Max appeared in the kitchen, wearing joggers, a tattered tank top, and high-top sneakers. As usual, her hair was piled on her head.
“Hi, honey,” she said, bracing herself for a cranky, early-morning teenage response. The weekend away with Max had been wonderful—even better than she’d allowed herself to hope—but Peyton had been up most of the night, haunted by Max’s confession that she felt lost and confused about her future. It had been such a rare admission from Max, who was normally so tough, and Peyton couldn’t stop thinking about it.
She stood up and wrapped her arms around her daughter. “Can I make you some breakfast?”
“No thanks,” Max said, more cheerily than she had in ages. “I’m going to meet some friends at the diner.”
“Some friends?”
“Mom.”
“What? Inquiring minds want to know if this group happens to include Oliver?”
Max pretended to be busy with filling her stainless coffee mug, but Peyton could see the blush creep up the back of her neck.
“I think it’s great that you two are…friends. That one time I came to visit you at work, he couldn’t have been nicer.”
“Mmm. So, you good with me taking the car?”
“Sure thing, honey. Just keep in touch, okay?”
“Yep,” Max said, hightailing it out of the kitchen. Peyton heard the door slam a minute later. She was thrilled that Max had a group now, and possibly even a boyfriend. She wasn’t quite sure she’d realized how lonely her daughter had been these last weeks—or really since Brynn left. Now, with her whole future uncertain…Peyton hated thinking about it.
Her phone rang.
“Hi,” she said to Nisha. “I was just going to call you!”
“Listen, I can’t really talk right now, I just wanted to see how you were doing with updating your social media? After your leaving the tennis fundraiser early, I really feel like you need to appeal directly to the public.”
“Um, yes, definitely. I spoke to the woman who oversees my social accounts, and she said the best way was to choose a dozen or so photos, write the captions, and send them to her. Then she’ll post a few every week.”
“Fine,” Nisha said. “Remember, we’re going for really personal here. Humanizing. Happy family events, okay? And do not be afraid to include Isaac—you aren’t hiding from anything.”
“Roger that,” Peyton said, joking, but still a little taken aback by Nisha’s abrupt manner. “Hey—I know this is super last minute, but any chance you want to meet tonight for a drink, or dinner even? I’m happy to come to you.”
“Would love to but I can’t tonight,” Nisha said.
Peyton waited for her to elaborate, but Nisha said nothing.
“Got it. Well, another time, then?”
“Mmm. Copy me on the email you send to her? So I can see the pictures?”
“Yes, of course. Say hi to Ajit for me. And the boys. We miss you guys!” She hadn’t meant for it to sound pathetic or accusatory or sad, but it managed to come out as all three.
“Will do. Talk soon,” Nisha said, and hung up.
No one would ever accuse Nisha of being warm and fuzzy, but when had she become so cold? So distant? They hadn’t seen each other since the brunch at Nisha’s apartment the morning after Isaac’s arrest, and that had hardly been social. Even when they were both crazed at work and juggling a thousand different things, they always made time to meet for a quick coffee or cocktail. Making a mental note to follow up with her friend, Peyton sent a text to her TV Moms group.
Hi! Last minute but anyone want to meet for a drink tonight?
She waited five minutes, and when no one responded, she added: Also, mi casa es su casa! Bring the fam and come visit this weekend. Pool, porch, chickens, cocktails…the suburbs await.
Again, another five minutes passed and then ten, and there was no response.
Trying not to attach any meaning to her friends’ radio silence, Peyton flipped open her laptop and began to scroll through her nearly eighty thousand pictures in Photos, looking for the just-right humanizing pictures that Nisha had requested. The first one she chose was of Max, age one, wearing a tutu in a pumpkin patch, her pigtails and chubby cheeks perfectly squeezable as she gummed an apple. Peyton smiled to herself, remembering the afternoon she and Isaac had driven to the farm on Long Island. She wrote, “My baby girl’s first Halloween!” As a counterpoint, Peyton scrolled forward sixteen years, the faces and places blurring by, before she found the exact photo she was looking for: Max at her high school graduation, a peace sign pasted on her mortarboard
and a giant smile on her face, ready to embrace her whole future. Peyton felt a tightening in her throat as she added the photo to the album and wrote, “So proud of the woman she’s become!”
She scrolled some more and chose a photo of Isaac and her, the weekend she proposed to him. Pale from seasickness and hair wild from the salty air, she helped him hold up a giant striped bass. Both of them were grinning. She remembered how they’d gone back to their little room at the Montauk Inn and made love and talked about all their plans for the future. She typed, “My man, the love of my life.” Without thinking, she added a couple more of her favorites, the pictures that stood out in her mind to this day, among the tens of thousands casually snapped over all their years together: one of Isaac cupping a newborn Max in the palms of his hands; Isaac holding up a toddler Max on miniature skis in Vermont one winter; a picture from an ANN holiday party where Isaac, looking gorgeous in his tuxedo, stood in the center of a group of her colleagues, making them all laugh. She smiled now, remembering how proud of him she’d been that night, how grateful that he was hers.
A few months earlier Skye had sent Peyton a zip drive with a bunch of old family photos she’d scanned from albums she found in Marcia’s storage closet. It took a few minutes, but Peyton located the drive and chose her favorite: her and Skye, both in middle school with bad bangs and braces, at a family bar mitzvah. She captioned it “My better half.” Unable to resist adding another, she found one of the three of them in their driveway in Pennsylvania. Skye was plopped down on the cement reading a Beverly Cleary book, while Marcia helped Peyton ride her new two-wheel bike. Their father had just left with his hygienist, and while Peyton couldn’t remember who had taken the picture, she could still recall the feeling that her life had been irrevocably changed.
Refilling her coffee, Peyton ran across a picture that made her instantly smile: it was all her TV Moms before they were moms, at Buddakan on opening night. Cocktails littered the table in front of them; they wore skimpy dresses and enormous white smiles, their arms slung over one another’s shoulders. She captioned it “My kick-ass friends from our early TV days.” Good god, that seemed like another lifetime. Had they ever been that happy and free? That young? But wait, she could remember another picture, from only six months ago. It took some searching, but Peyton soon located exactly what she was looking for. They’d all somehow managed to escape their jobs and husbands and kids and responsibilities and steal three days together at a resort in Mexico. In the photo they were floating in the pool with floppy sun hats and brightly colored margaritas, laughing. Always laughing. She captioned it “My girls.”
The photo reminded her to check her texts, but not one of her friends had responded about meeting up for drinks or coming to visit her in Paradise. She slumped back in the uncomfortable wicker dining chair and stared at her screen. There, practically calling out to her, was the photo that would complete her social media collection. It was from last year’s Thanksgiving, which Peyton and Isaac had hosted. All of them—Skye’s family, Gabe’s mother, Marcia, Max, and even Brynn, who’d stopped over to say hello—sat in the living room, stuffed after an epic spread, and watched Aurora do a choreographed dance to a Justin Bieber song. Peyton had snapped the picture while standing on a couch to make sure she captured the whole scene, and every single person was laughing and clapping.
The tears came on so swiftly, so fiercely, that Peyton could barely stand up. She had to get away from the computer, her phone, all those thousands of photos that showed in bold, living color what she had jeopardized. She staggered into her bedroom and flung herself on Isaac’s side of the bed, which was ridiculous because he hadn’t spent so much as a single night at the cottage in Paradise. How could she have done it? Why? What was she thinking? She’d asked herself this so many times over the last weeks and months, and while it made her feel slightly better to say she did it for Max, Peyton couldn’t lie to herself any longer. She’d risked it all—her marriage, her relationship with her Skye, her friends, her career, and, worst of all, her daughter’s future—in some foolish attempt at being perfect. At keeping up appearances. To make sure that no one ever saw the real Peyton, the one who constantly felt like an imposter, and who, despite all the achievements, was convinced she deserved none of them.
25
Cake-Scented Vortex of Hell
Skye stalked all three floors of the newly renovated library, her heart pounding as she scoped out the quietest available cubicle. Libraries were another place that made her feel old. When she was a kid, growing up in Pennsylvania, her local town library was militant about three rules: no eating, no talking, and return your books on time. But here, at the Paradise Community Library that looked more like MoMA, none of those rules applied. Except for one small, quiet reading room, people spoke in normal tones. Cellphones rang. Laptops dinged and chirped. People pecked away on keyboards and munched on kale chips and slurped down liter after liter of Smart-water and Vitaminwater and Hint water. Toddlers tore through the stacks and babies wailed and mothers threatened. Teenagers who’d told their parents they were doing homework huddled in corners. TikTokking. And the books! If you checked out ten and didn’t read a single one before your three weeks ran out? No problem! Just log on and extend it. It was like the entire place was unrecognizable, a virtual hub of socializing and chatting and eating and drinking and non-reading and barely any writing and zero studying. But still, it was a thousand times better than trying to work at a Starbucks or—shudder—her own house, so Skye kept coming back.
Her phone rang with a blocked number. Reflexively, she sent the call to voicemail, waited thirty seconds, and then read the garbled transcript. It was from yet another debt collector, wanting to know when she was going to make her next payment. She deleted it and took a few breaths. Just yesterday, right after Gabe had left for work, she’d packed Aurora and about six hundred dollars’ worth of towels and bed linens into the car and headed to Bed Bath & Beyond. The sales associate was hesitant to accept items so far past the return window, but the manager made an exception when Skye started crying. From there she’d made returns to Target, West Elm, and Walmart, but she had barely made a dent in either her basement or her credit card debt.
After she finally settled down at a desk that was a touch too close to the graphic novel section for her liking (those kids tended to be the loudest), she logged onto the Wi-Fi and, as she’d promised herself, knocked out a few emails that had been haunting her. Feeling productive, she read and reread the draft of the email she’d written the week before but still hadn’t worked up the nerve to send out. It described her plans for the residence and a bit about the first class of girls in what she hoped was an interesting and evocative way. Only at the very end did she ask for leads on people who might be interested—personally or professionally—in helping to underwrite the project. Should she be more direct? Less? Ask sooner? Share more? Skye agonized before slamming her laptop closed in frustration. How was she back here again, scrounging around for money and begging people to donate? Her anger toward Isaac was unhealthy, she knew this, but she couldn’t help it. It was one thing if you made the choice to ruin your own life, but that the fallout also affected Max and eight completely deserving children made it much harder to swallow.
A disgruntled-looking teenage boy sauntered over and raked through the graphic novels. He made strange lip-smacking noises, and he glared at Skye when he caught her staring. She grabbed her laptop and headed to the library’s café for some coffee. Was she emotionally damaged for assuming he was going to pull out a gun and start to shoot the place up?
From the café she texted Gabe and asked him: Am I crazy to think some kid dressed in all black and making angry noises in the library is a school shooter?
Yes.
Why? Don’t you ever think about it? She knew he did.
Of course. Too often. Our country is broken.
Then why don’t you think my library guy is a kil
ler?
Because he’s at the library!
Skye considered this. It was a fair point. She sipped her coffee and checked the time: the conference room would be all hers in fifteen minutes. Yes, she’d frittered away precious minutes looking for a quiet place to work, but soon she’d be able to move into a private room for ninety straight minutes—more than enough time to edit and send the email to everyone she knew, so long as she stayed focused—and she would still make it on time to meet Max and Aurora at the mall.
She copied and pasted her exact text to Peyton. Am I crazy to think some kid dressed in all black and making angry noises in the library is a school shooter?
You’d be crazy not to, Peyton wrote back instantly. Don’t think, just leave! Trust your instincts!
Skye smiled.
Collecting her coffee and bag, she headed to Conference Room 2, and after adjusting the temperature and the lighting and unpacking her laptop, she settled into her seat. She took a deep breath. Here it was. Her ninety minutes of focus. The hour and a half she’d been waiting for all day. She was ready. She was going to crush it. The room was cool and quiet, Skye was fed and caffeinated, and her daughter was safe and happy. She’d been lucky that Isaac had a contact who’d been willing to fund this, but now it was time for her to make it happen. She wasn’t a quitter, at least not yet. She took a few deep breaths, channeled some positive words of encouragement, and opened her laptop. An email from J.Crew popped up announcing their annual fifty percent off sale, and instinctively, Skye clicked on it.
A new-for-fall hot-pink sherpa kid’s coat led her to check a few other sites to make sure no one did a cuter version at a better price, which led to a list of new fall trends on BuzzFeed and then straight to a slideshow of the summer’s bestselling five-star products on Amazon. Before she could even register what was happening, Skye had ordered a specialty moisturizing mouthwash despite not having a particularly dry mouth, a set of magnetic measuring cups for all the baking she never did, and an extremely cute sunglasses organizer even though she only owned two pairs. There was a knock on her conference room door.
Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty Page 28
