Confessions on the 7:45(10)

But no. She couldn’t. She couldn’t unsee what she’d seen, unknow what she now knew about her husband. She wasn’t like her mother. She couldn’t just stand by for the sake of the children. Could she?

The train came to life then, lights coming on, lurching forward. Nauseated, heart racing a little, Selena started to gather her things.

“Yeah,” Selena said, managing a thin laugh. “I don’t think I could get that lucky.”

“You never know.” Martha twisted a strand of her dark, silky hair. “Bad things happen all the time.”

Selena moved over to the seat on the other side of the aisle.

“I’ll spread out,” she said as Martha watched with a polite smile. “Give you some space.”

Martha nodded, pulled her tote up off the ground.

“Thanks for the drink,” Selena said when she’d settled. “And for listening.”

“Thank you,” said Martha. “I feel better. I think I know what to do.”

“Sometimes we just need an ear.”

“And a little push in the right direction.”

What did she mean by that? Selena didn’t really want to know. Something about the conversation, the other woman’s tone, the vodka, had her feeling uneasy, and very much wanting the conversation to end. Why had she told this stranger about herself? Something so personal?

She opened her magazine and started flipping through the glossy pages of impossibly slim bodies, flawless faces, enviable lives. When she looked over at Martha again, she seemed to have nodded off. As the train neared her station, Selena gathered her things, but the other woman didn’t stir. She slipped off as quietly as she could, not saying goodbye, not looking back, hoping that they wouldn’t meet again.



FOUR

Geneva

Geneva stacked Crate and Barrel plates in the dishwasher, then wiped down the gleaming quartz countertop, listening to the boys bouncing around upstairs while Graham tried to read a story and get them settled for the night. Jumping off the beds by the sound of it, a heavy thud that caused glasses in the cabinets to rattle slightly. Something neither Selena nor Geneva would ever tolerate. Story time was for winding down, not winding up.

She put away the leftover food from dinner, leaving a plate wrapped in the fridge for Selena, even though she’d probably already eaten.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she closed the refrigerator door. She was sorry. She liked Selena, respected her. She would never have chosen to hurt and betray her in this way. In the worst way one woman could betray another.

She was used to it. That hot feeling of shame. Its familiarity was almost a comfort. The heat started in her center, then radiated up to her face in a rush. Finally, there was a bottoming out that left her with a gaping hollow in her center.

Why? Why would she do this? Again and again. She didn’t want to.

There was only one reason. And this was the very last time. She’d been putting money away. There was almost enough now to break free.

She sat at the table and wrote a list for Selena.

“Oliver needs a new uniform shirt, order from the school office; Stephen’s teacher—” who seemed like a bit of a tight-ass to Geneva “—said at pickup that he was a chatterbox lately, distracting his friends, and not paying attention.”

In fact, Stephen was a chatterbox—but he was lovely and creative and sweet. Anyway, Selena would know what to say to Stephen, and to his teacher. Luckily, Geneva’s job was only to report the problem; she didn’t have to handle it. That was the joy of being a nanny and not a mommy. You got to go home.

The pen felt heavy in her hand.

She could still taste Graham on her lips.

When she met him, during her interview with Selena and the boys, she thought he was the handyman, someone Selena had hired to do the jobs her high-powered husband didn’t have the time to do himself. He’d been struggling with stones in the low wall that surrounded their expansive backyard.

During the all-important recon, she’d seen him in pictures on social media. Once, she’d seen him on the train from the city as he commuted home from work. At that time, he’d been dressed in a well-made suit, good shoes. He’d been clean-shaven, put together. When she saw him at the house, she didn’t recognize him at first.

“Oh, there’s Graham,” said Selena, who’d just shown Geneva around the gargantuan kitchen. “He’ll be around some. But mainly he’ll be out interviewing, I’d think.”

Selena misread the confused look on Geneva’s face.

“My husband,” she clarified.

“Oh, right,” said Geneva. “Of course.”

Geneva had watched him a minute as he lifted the rocks, stacking them. There was something virile about him, even though—or maybe because—he was sweating from physical labor. Jeans, T-shirt, work boots. He’d gained weight since she’d last seen him, but his arms were muscular, shoulders broad. There was an appealing strength to his physicality. The stubble on his jaw was not unattractive.

Still. When Geneva looked at Selena—slim, dark, with fine, proud features and unblemished skin. She must know, right, that her husband was not her equal in any way? Why did so many women do that? Not just a stunner, Selena was also smart, personable, a good mom. One of those Wonder Woman types this culture was so good at producing.