nothing; there’s nothing Annie could do to make herself worthy enough for Colin to pursue her. She opens the front-facing camera on her phone and studies herself through the dim, muddied light on her screen. Even with some fine lines here and there, she’s prettier than she used to be: The freckles across her nose no longer embarrass her, the glow of her skin has gone from youthful indifference to downright illuminating. Her lashes are lush, her brows are thick and arched like all the current runway models. Her highlights blend so seamlessly into her base color that you’d never know they weren’t natural.
She drops her phone to the duvet.
Even with all this . . . no, he still wouldn’t chase her down the street. That’s just how it is, that’s just how it will always be. She’s not the type of woman who gets chased down the street. Well, Baxter had chased her in their early days, but that was years ago.
xo
The sign-off worms its way into her mental space—disruptive, unwanted, but there all the same. She cracks her thumb knuckle, then the other one. He couldn’t be . It couldn’t be. She must be reading more into it than it really is. It’s two stupid letters, just a casual way of saying good-bye. She pops her index fingers, then her pinkies. Her pulse accelerates with each delicious pop. She couldn’t have missed it again, the signs, his distance, not now that she was sober, coherent! She cradles her head in her hands and twists, squeezing out something unfamiliar, something unsettling: rage.
POP.
She rolls her neck back and forth across the pillow, breathing deep yoga breaths.
She thinks of her favorite website, CitiMama, where loads of anonymous women post questions like this: My husband got a text that was signed with “Xo.” What would you do?
She already knows what they’d say. She spends enough anonymous hours of her own on there to know they’d pile on Baxter like a pack of rabid wolves: shredding him until there was nothing left that Annie recognized.
She pinches her thigh, then pinches harder. She doesn’t like being angry, she doesn’t like these strange roots of fury blossoming into something bigger, something real. She digs into her flesh until she snaps out of it.
At 2:15 a.m., she turns off her light and tries to settle into her old bed. Or whoever’s bed this is now. She waits three beats, three breaths, then decides it’s no use. She’s not going to be able to sleep at all, and then she worries what she’ll look like in the morning: ghastly! Gruesome. With ogre-size bags under her eyes. With blotchy skin that even the best foundation might not be able to conceal. What will Colin think?
She clicks the light back on and checks her e-mail on her phone. No one is e-mailing Annie at 2:20 a.m., but she holds out hope. Maybe someone on the West Coast is awake, even though she really doesn’t have friends out there.
Annie rereads her text to Baxter from earlier in the night—right after Colin bolted down the block after Lindy, and after she and Catherine had shared all the pictures of their kids from their phones, and after Annie had peppered Catherine endlessly with questions on how she conceives all of her magnificent (truly magnificent!) ideas for The Crafty Lady. Eventually, she could tell that Catherine was growing weary of the subject, so they retreated to bed.
She reads the text once more.
I love you! I miss you! Give Gussy ten big kisses for me!
Baxter hadn’t written back until nearly midnight. He must have fallen asleep on the couch again, waking to pee, checking his phone. He’d replied with a solitary emoji thumbs-up.
She rolls onto her side and stares at their text exchange, with the pseudo–Ralph Lauren sheets around her shins, and the pine-beer scent wafting all around her and the familiar creaking of the stairs as Catherine paces around her bedroom down the hall and her own history here, and she thinks, xo .
Why couldn’t he at least say
She drops her phone to the duvet.
Even with all this . . . no, he still wouldn’t chase her down the street. That’s just how it is, that’s just how it will always be. She’s not the type of woman who gets chased down the street. Well, Baxter had chased her in their early days, but that was years ago.
xo
The sign-off worms its way into her mental space—disruptive, unwanted, but there all the same. She cracks her thumb knuckle, then the other one. He couldn’t be . It couldn’t be. She must be reading more into it than it really is. It’s two stupid letters, just a casual way of saying good-bye. She pops her index fingers, then her pinkies. Her pulse accelerates with each delicious pop. She couldn’t have missed it again, the signs, his distance, not now that she was sober, coherent! She cradles her head in her hands and twists, squeezing out something unfamiliar, something unsettling: rage.
POP.
She rolls her neck back and forth across the pillow, breathing deep yoga breaths.
She thinks of her favorite website, CitiMama, where loads of anonymous women post questions like this: My husband got a text that was signed with “Xo.” What would you do?
She already knows what they’d say. She spends enough anonymous hours of her own on there to know they’d pile on Baxter like a pack of rabid wolves: shredding him until there was nothing left that Annie recognized.
She pinches her thigh, then pinches harder. She doesn’t like being angry, she doesn’t like these strange roots of fury blossoming into something bigger, something real. She digs into her flesh until she snaps out of it.
At 2:15 a.m., she turns off her light and tries to settle into her old bed. Or whoever’s bed this is now. She waits three beats, three breaths, then decides it’s no use. She’s not going to be able to sleep at all, and then she worries what she’ll look like in the morning: ghastly! Gruesome. With ogre-size bags under her eyes. With blotchy skin that even the best foundation might not be able to conceal. What will Colin think?
She clicks the light back on and checks her e-mail on her phone. No one is e-mailing Annie at 2:20 a.m., but she holds out hope. Maybe someone on the West Coast is awake, even though she really doesn’t have friends out there.
Annie rereads her text to Baxter from earlier in the night—right after Colin bolted down the block after Lindy, and after she and Catherine had shared all the pictures of their kids from their phones, and after Annie had peppered Catherine endlessly with questions on how she conceives all of her magnificent (truly magnificent!) ideas for The Crafty Lady. Eventually, she could tell that Catherine was growing weary of the subject, so they retreated to bed.
She reads the text once more.
I love you! I miss you! Give Gussy ten big kisses for me!
Baxter hadn’t written back until nearly midnight. He must have fallen asleep on the couch again, waking to pee, checking his phone. He’d replied with a solitary emoji thumbs-up.
She rolls onto her side and stares at their text exchange, with the pseudo–Ralph Lauren sheets around her shins, and the pine-beer scent wafting all around her and the familiar creaking of the stairs as Catherine paces around her bedroom down the hall and her own history here, and she thinks, xo .
Why couldn’t he at least say
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