Page 144 of Babies for the Big Shot
They called her unstable and a liability. A cautionary tale, a symptom of the so called “Ashford rot.”
And when she stopped answering the phone, when she disappeared from the society columns and cut ties with anyone who sold even a whisper, they labeled that, too.
Mysterious. Erratic. Possibly institutionalized.
I remember the look on her face when I told her it was over. That I’d taken care of it. That the press wouldn’t touch her again.
She didn’t thank me. She didn’t cry.
She’d just said, “Too late.”
That was fifteen years ago.
I keep the photo. It sits in the bottom drawer of my desk, tucked behind a stack of quarterly briefs no one ever reads.
Sometimes I take it out. Not to remember. To make sure I don’t forget.
That’s what the press does. It strips people for parts.
Sara doesn’t know any of this. She’s never asked about the woman in the photograph, and I’ve never volunteered.
Because some stories don’t belong in the daylight. Some are better left where they were buried.
But this morning, with Isla Vale circling like a hawk, I feel the same cold pressure in my chest I felt then. The same tightening at the base of my throat.
I won’t let it happen again.
No matter what I have to do.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Sara
I regretit before I even take off my coat.
There’s a circle of yoga mats laid out in pastel symmetry, a soft instrumental playlist wafting from a Bluetooth speaker in the corner, and pairs.
So manypairs. Couples sitting cross-legged, palms resting on rounded bellies, faces arranged in practiced anticipation.
Some are rubbing backs. Some are whispering affirmations. One guy is spoon feeding his partner strawberries like this is a fertility-themed Bridgerton spin-off.
And then there’s me.
Solo. Hood up. Hoodie one size too large and hair tucked under a baseball cap as if I’m auditioning for the role of “anonymous pregnant woman number two” in a very low-budget drama.
I hover near the edge of the mat circle, wondering how fast I can fake a phone call and vanish.
Maybe I should.
I could say I forgot my water bottle. I could say I’m contagious. I could say the triplets are unionizing and refusing to attend any prenatal events without representation.
But then the instructor clocks me.
“Welcome!” she chirps in the bright, borderline evangelical tone of someone who’s made peace with kale and self-actualization. “Come in, make yourself comfortable!”
I do not feel comfortable.
I might as well be an exposed nerve.
