Gwen examines her friend, her auburn waves pulled into a ponytail, her freckled, makeup-free face, her brows furrowed in concern. Is she really that clueless, or is she hiding something?
“I’m not upset, I just think it’s very weird that Scott went to Villain & Saint the same night. Did he see Anton there?”
“No, of course not. He was meeting a friend.”
“You’re telling me you don’t think that’s odd?”
Aimee bristles. “It’s the nearest bar.”
“We all go there,” Lisa says. “Everyone in the neighborhood. I know for a fact that Liz and Dave Muhlbaum were at Villain & Saint on Friday night. So was Michelle J.” She lets out a little shudder. Of all the Michelles in the neighborhood, Michelle J. is the craziest.
“Yeah, but—” Gwen starts and then stops. If Aimee knew something, she wouldn’t be able to hide it. She’s the worst card player Gwen has ever met. Every time they play Pitch, she can always tell if Aimee has the jack because she starts wiggling in her seat, smiling. There is no way she is keeping any secrets. But that doesn’t mean Scott isn’t. “But Anton came here. He came here to talk to Scott. And we’re supposed to believe they both ended up at Villain & Saint separately?”
Aimee stiffens. “I don’t see where you’re going with this. I feel like you’re saying that Scott had something to do with Anton’s death—”
“I’m not saying that,” Gwen says. But isn’t she?
“Well, he didn’t. For the record.”
“Fine.”
Aimee forces a laugh. “I mean, this is Scott we’re talking about. I think I know my husband.”
“Of course you do.”
“So then what’s your problem, Gwen?”
Aimee glares at her like a cornered cat, challenging her. She’s never seen this side of Aimee before. She’s not willing to even consider Scott as anything less than perfect. Gwen knows that feeling well. How you can’t let even the sliver of a doubt in, or it might crack your whole façade of perfection wide open. She smiles ingratiatingly at Aimee. The ideal friend, the forgiving wife, the selfless mother. Would her role-playing ever end?
A car door slams outside and Aimee stands. “I think Scott’s home with the kids,” she says.
“I better get going, too,” Lisa says, putting her mug down. “I promised to make spaghetti and meatballs.”
The three of them are in the foyer getting their shoes on when Aimee snaps her fingers. “Wait, hold on, Lisa. I have something of yours.” Aimee disappears and comes back holding a pen.
“What is that?” Lisa looks up from where she is kneeling, adjusting the laces on her sneakers.
“A pen. Apparently Noa, uh, borrowed it from you.” Aimee flashes a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that.”
“Aimee, isn’t she a little old to be engaging in that kind of stuff?” Lisa asks, looking up from her crouching position. “I mean, I know that kids steal, but they grow out of it by her age. It’s not normal.”
“Oh, leave her alone, it’s a freaking pen.” Gwen takes the pen from Aimee. It’s hefty, not a cheap one. She turns it overand reads the gold lettering: Le Cannu. For a moment she can’t breathe. That was the name she couldn’t remember. The restaurant with the outrageous bill.
Do you begrudge me a dinner on a work trip?
Lisa takes the pen from Gwen’s hand and for a fraction of a second, the two make eye contact.
In that moment, Gwen realizes who her husband’s been sleeping with.
17
NOW
True to his word, Scott is making dinner, a stir-fry with rice noodles, while Aimee sits on the living room floor with three backpacks, surrounded by crumpled papers, folders, broken pencils, fidget spinners, and other detritus.
“Do you still need this, Benji?” she calls out, holding up a sheet of math problems that has not been written on. “It doesn’t look like you even filled it out.”
“Nope!” Benji zooms by. “That’s so old.”