Page 45 of The Yes Factor

Our bedroom doors had closed almost in unison. In affectionate half-sentence grunts, we both agreed we were too dead to watch a movie, even too beat for Patrick Swayze and Dirty Dancing, which I didn’t think was possible. Baby would have to stay in a corner, at least for tonight. Maybe, for Bex, it was the sun, the mud, the wine, or the drive. But for me, it was the talk. There it was, all my dirty laundry for Bex to see.

But it was still a good day. Bex’s support for me, our support for each other, is as strong as it ever was. Yes, we drive each other crazy sometimes, but she’s the sister I never had.

I lie down on the bed, curled up on my side, clutching my phone, staring blankly into the screen. My eyes go dry as I mindlessly scroll through the news, then switch to the weather, then my pedometer app, then back to the news, all the while willing myself not to look at Instagram or Facebook. I have two unread texts that I’ve been ignoring since the night out at Glamour & State. One from Ethan, one from Clarissa. Might as well dive in.

Darling, still busy in Dubai. Alan said that Clarissa never heard from you. What’s going on?

Perfunctory. To the point. Well, I guess that’s what texts should be. But still, would it kill him to drop in an emoji, or at least ask how I’m doing? He has no idea I am in LA. I haven’t told him so how could he? But the fact that we’ve spent almost a week without even talking doesn’t seem to have fazed him that much.

I call him and it rings for so long that I assume it’ll go voicemail. Giving up, I lower the phone to press end when I hear Ethan’s voice, “Liv, what’s going on?” Not even a “hello.”

Bringing the phone back to my ear, I stumble over my words. “Hi, nothing. I’m fine.” I pause, gathering my composure, then, “I’m in LA.”

“LA? What on earth are you doing there?”

“Visiting Bex,” I respond without feeling the need for further elaboration.

“Who?”

“Bex. Rebecca. You know, my best friend.” I try to remain calm, but inside I feel like screaming.

“Oh right, yes, of course. Bex.” Ethan says her name as if he’s never heard it before. “Liv, listen, darling. Don’t you think that’s rather impulsive. Going to LA. What happened to Provence? You’ve put me in a bit of a pickle here with Alan. I’d already told him that you’d be calling Clarissa for an impromptu getaway. Shame that our reservation went to waste.”

Pickle off, I think.

“I always take out travel insurance. Don’t worry, we didn’t lose any money canceling. And Clarissa is a big girl. She can take care of herself. I’m sure she spent all weekend at Selfridge’s anyway. How’s Dubai going?” Not that I’m particularly interested.

“It’s going. I’ve got to be in Zurich next week. At least the weather will be tolerable there,” he says. We haven’t spoken in a week and we’re already talking about the weather?

“Oh, well, I guess I’ll see you soon even if for a day. My flight lands on Sunday morning. Why don’t we do lunch at The Wolseley? I think we should make some time to talk.” I put myself out on a limb.

“Yes, let’s do that. Nice idea, darling.”

“Okay, well, see you around then,” I say half-heartedly. It wasn’t meant to be the end of our conversation, but Ethan responds with a “Bye, darling” and that’s that.

I’m staring at the phone again. Was that conversation even real? Bex is right. I can’t keep hiding. But that’s all I want to do right now. Hide. Not call Ethan back, not even go back “home.”

As if to rub salt in the wound, I open the text from Clarissa.

Sweets! Where are you? Did you go to France? Alan said something about a girl’s getaway.

Call me! Xx

Knowing Clarissa deserves a response, no matter how belated, I type in: Hi babes, ended up in LA, crazy I know! See you soon. Drinks this week?

I throw in a heart, flowers, and a martini glass emoji, hating myself as I do it.

I give in and open Instagram and go to Clarissa’s account. An over-filtered, ultra-bright photo is the most recent one posted. A selfie of her and two friends with drinks in hands. #boysawaygirlsplay #prosecco #lovemygirls #missyoualan. Aren’t we too old for this? Alan isn’t even on Instagram, but it’s like Clarissa has to call him out to remind herself that they’re married. And then on autopilot, I do exactly what I know I shouldn’t do. Francois. I scan through his page like the Terminator, looking at every image, every hashtag, like a forensic scientist. Of course, there are lots of posts from the last few days. It’s all part of building his image, his brand. He knows exactly what he’s doing. All these photos of young things and late-night party posts make him seem cool, relevant. I was a thirty-nine-year-old blip on the radar for him. I’d be very out of place in this photo lineup.

I toss the phone out of my hand, a rotten appendage that I’m finally free of. I curl up into more of a ball and almost fall asleep. But then I reach out for my phone. I want to pretend everything’s okay, just for a little bit longer.

“Hi, Mommy, it’s me. How are you?” I say in an upbeat voice. I hadn’t even told my mom and dad that I was over on this side of the ocean. Guilt gently gnaws at me as I explain that no, it wasn’t the middle of the night in London, that I’m in LA.

“Everything’s fine, Mom. I’m here on a surprise trip to see Bex. How are you and Dad?”

“Oh, we’re fine, honey. Daddy’s been working out in the yard today. Putting up wire around the tomato plants. Although you and I both know it’s not going to stop those damn squirrels. The neighbors complained to the cops about him using the BB gun on them.”

In my dad’s world, tomato-eating squirrels are more of a suburban menace than the opioid crisis.

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