Page 58 of Count My Lies

“Wow!” Sloane says as Jay nods appreciatively.

“It’s a good excuse to get out of the house,” she says. “Fitz—my husband”—she clarifies to us all—“lets the kids watch cartoons when they wake up—it’svacation, he says—and they’re demons when it’s time to turn it off. So I let him deal with the aftermath. It’s his mess, really. Are any of you runners?”

Both Sloane and I shake our heads, but Jay makes an affirmative noise. “When I have the time,” he says. “I love running. In fact, I was hoping to squeeze in a few jogs while we’re here.” I try not to roll my eyes. I haven’t seen him lace up a pair of running shoes since we moved to New York. But Jay, predictable Jay, won’t miss the chance to makesomeone feel seen. And Anne-Marie offered one in an outstretched hand.

“You should join me!” Anne-Marie says.

Jay nods thoughtfully. “Maybe I will. When do you go?”

“Seven-ish,” she says. “Before it gets too hot. And before these monkeys are hungry for breakfast. Fitz couldn’t scramble an egg to save his life.” She rolls her eyes. “But speaking of hungry—and Fitz—we should be getting back. He’ll be home from golf soon and wondering where dinner is.”

“And I should head back upstairs,” Jay says, smiling. “I have a little bit more work to do.” He takes a can of seltzer from the fridge. “Nice to meet you, Anne-Marie. Maybe I’ll see you in the morning.”

He smiles, gives a wave, and the three of us watch as he makes his way back to the stairs. I let out a sigh of relief, glad Jay hadn’t said anything that would have given me away.

“My husband has neveroncejoined me for a run.” Anne-Marie gives a little laugh. “Can you tell him to talk to Fitz?” She directs the question to Sloane. Then she pushes open the screen door to the back patio. “Kids! Let’s go!”

We all walk them to the front door. Harper and Claire are giggling among themselves, already fast friends.

“Thanks for the Popsicles! Can you guys say thank you?” Anne-Marie says to her kids as they step out of the house. Then to us, “Beach again tomorrow?”

“We’ll see you there!” I say.

“Nice to meet you!” Sloane calls as they reach the end of the walkway.

I ease the door shut behind them. “That Fitz really sounds like a catch,” Sloane says when it’s closed.

I snort. “Husband of the year.” Well, runner-up to Jay, of course.

When I get into bed that night, I have a smile on my face. The meeting with Anne-Marie couldn’t have gone any better. She’s going to be a witness for me, even though she doesn’t know it yet. It’s another checked box on the list, another step closer.

Soon, this will all be over.

25

The next few days blur together, the bright blue skies bleeding from one afternoon into the next. We spend most waking hours on the white sand beach, every morning setting up an umbrella for shade, unfolding beach chairs, spreading a blanket out, and doling out shovels and buckets for Harper to play with.

We apply and reapply sunscreen to ourselves and Harper, offering each other our backs, slathering on coat after coat until our skin shines. We take turns wading in the water with Harper, splashing in the surf. Taylor Swift plays on repeat as we trade magazines, reading articles out loud to each other, talk about nothing, everything. When Harper yells, “Mom!” we both look up and wave.

Anne-Marie and her kids pop by every so often to dig in the sand, share juice boxes, snacks. Anne-Marie gossips about the families on the island, complains about her husband, and, along with Sloane, ogles Jay when he comes down to swim with Harper.

Jay is mostly holed up in his makeshift office upstairs in the oversized laundry room, but he joins us for lunches and dinners and will occasionally appear on the beach under the pretense of saying hito Harper, instead flirting with Sloane, predictable as always. He’s taken Anne-Marie up on her offer to run together; every morning he disappears for an hour, comes back brow beaded with sweat, his T-shirt soaked through, clinging to his chest and back. Already his skin has darkened, deepening into a golden hue. If it’s possible, he’s becoming even more handsome, ripening in the sun. Soon, he’ll be ready to pick. Then I’ll squeeze, letting the juice run down my arms, stain my clothes.

At night, he puts Harper to bed while Sloane and I do the dishes. When the kitchen is clean, we change into our pajamas and binge-watchBridgerton. Jay usually comes back down to grab a beer, then disappears again, back up the stairs to his office.

I stock our fridge with ice cream and Popsicles, help myself to extra scoops and oversized portions at dinner. It doesn’t take long for me to gain weight, my cheeks becoming a little rounder, stomach a little softer. I don’t wash my face at night, either, pleased in the mornings when there’s a new smattering of pimples on my chin, along my jawline. I don’t pluck my brows, never blow-dry my hair. I look less and less like my old self each day. I catch Jay staring at me one morning while I’m changing into a swimsuit, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

Things have changed between Sloane and me here, too. A subtle, almost imperceptible shift. In New York, we were close; it wasn’t real, not all of it, but I really had begun to enjoy her company. She’s funny, self-deprecating, thoughtful. A liar, yes, but desperate, mostly, for people to like her. And she wanted me to like her, thought I was special. It made me feel special, something I haven’t felt for a long time. I’d been lonely in New York. I told her the truth that first night; I hadn’t made many friends since the move, spent most of my time withHarper, or by myself. By the time we left for Block Island, I looked forward to seeing her every day, glad when she walked through the door.

But now she looks at Jay the way she used to look at me. She lights up when he walks into a room, her eyes bright and shining. It’s his desire she wants, not my friendship. I don’t fault her, especially since I’ve been gently nudging her to him. Even though it’s necessary, it leaves a bitter taste at the back of my throat, a hardened pit at the base of my stomach.

It’s Thursday night, our sixth night here. Sloane and I have just finished cleaning the kitchen when Jay comes back down from putting Harper to bed. Normally, he stays upstairs, claiming he has to work for another hour or two. But tonight, he had three beers with dinner. I can tell he’s restless, will likely open a fourth, maybe a fifth, tired of being alone. I want to be asleep when he’s ready for bed, or at least pretending to be.

I let out a loud yawn, stretching my arms above my head. “I’m going to head upstairs. Can we rain-checkBridgertontonight?” I say to Sloane, pretending to suppress a second yawn. “I’m beat. I think I’m going to take a bath and get into bed.”

“Of course,” she says. She flicks her eyes to Jay. I can tell she’s excited by his presence, by the possibilities.

“Okay, good night!” I give a general wave and make my way upstairs. A moment later, they begin to banter, Sloane giggling.

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