Little Secrets(22)

They are enemies. Of the most mortal kind.

To anyone who might casually look over, Marin looks like any other person, sipping a coffee, catching up on work, looking up random stuff on the internet. Except it’s not “stuff.” She’s looking at pictures of the other woman when the other woman is right the fuck there, but she dares anyone who hasn’t been through this to judge her.

Unless it’s happened to you, you can’t possibly understand how this feels.

Everything Castro’s notes don’t say, McKenzie Li’s Instagram account does. She hashtags all her photos, telling the world that she’s an #artist, #booklover, and #tealover, and she drinks mostly #craftbeer when she’s out with friends. #BufordTheCat, some scraggly thing with giant ears and watery eyes, appears at least once a week (#adoptdontshop). She takes a ton of selfies, usually because she’s showing off a new #fleamarketfind outfit, or a new #hairspiration hair color, but it’s okay because they’re all hashtagged with #shamelessselfie just to make sure her followers know that she knows how narcissistic selfies are. Her favorite hobby is #repurposing old furniture, which she paints and sells through #FacebookMarketplace. She loves to #bingewatch #Netflix, and she seems to have no problems sharing the most mundane details of her life with com plete strangers. Even the day she woke up #sick and her eyes were puffy and bloodshot—and she looked, quite frankly, terrible—she was #keepingitreal. And her followers loved it. That one photo got almost two thousand likes.

She has over fifty thousand followers. Fifty thousand people care about what McKenzie Li posts. The Instagram account for Marin’s salons, in comparison, has barely half that, and the business netted over three million dollars last year.

She is everything Marin resents about the younger generation.

Everything the woman does is documented online, except for her married lover. It must kill her that she can’t talk about him. But people wouldn’t like her so much if they knew who she really was, would they? There are hints here and there of someone special in McKenzie’s life, but they’re only hints.

Marin would be happy to suggest a few hashtags for her: #homewrecker, #whore, and #golddigger, for starters.

She has no appetite for the cookie. She takes a long sip of the latte. She can’t say if it’s good, because she can’t taste it. The metallic tang in her mouth won’t dissipate. Copper pennies, she’s learning, is what betrayal tastes like.

Her husband’s lover is now ten feet away from her at the coffee-fixing station, refilling the cream and the milk and the napkin dispensers. Marin’s body goes tense, and she holds her breath, waiting for McKenzie to look over and finally realize who she is. But the other woman never even glances in her direction. As if Marin’s not there.

As if Marin doesn’t exist.

But McKenzie had existed to Marin all along. On some level, she had known, but she just hadn’t wanted to see. Derek’s lover has been right under Marin’s nose for six months. She’s the reason he turns his phone away when he’s texting, the reason he travels twice as much as he used to, the reason Marin barely hears from him when he’s away.

But living in denial is easier than confronting it. Denial is a safe little bubble that protects your soft underbelly from things that scratch, bite, and burn.

Her phone pings, and it’s the Shadow app again. It’s going to be a while before she gets used to the sound. Derek has finally replied to McKenzie’s earlier text, and Marin feels a wave of nausea pass over her when she reads it.

Derek: Miss you too, babe. Today’s been a shitshow, could use some extra time tonight with my girl. I’ll be back in Seattle by 7, and I made a reservation at our favorite hotel, if you’re up for it … ?

McKenzie: YES!!!!!

The younger woman’s smile stretches from ear to ear. It’s directed at no one in particular, and her obvious happiness is like a fist wrapped around Marin’s beating heart, squeezing it like a balloon. One squish for every exclamation mark.

Derek is supposed to be home later tonight. Does McKenzie understand that he has to lie to his wife in order to be with her? Does that bother her at all? Does she find that quality attractive in a man? Even if McKenzie doesn’t recognize Marin, she has to know he’s married. If she’s ever googled Derek—and what millennial wouldn’t have searched online for the person they’re sleeping with?—his company bio, which mentions Marin, would come up. And you know what else comes up?

News articles about their missing son. Fifteen months ago, it was the hottest story in the city. You can’t google Derek’s name or Marin’s without seeing a picture of Sebastian’s Missing Child poster within the first five hits.

#liar. #homewreckingwhore. #slut.

McKenzie is now five feet away, holding a coffee pot and chatting with a customer, a regular, based on the way they’re interacting. Marin’s tempted to take a picture and text it to Derek. No caption required. Let him look at it, have his heart jump into his throat when he realizes what he’s looking at, because it’s what his wife’s looking at. Wouldn’t that be something.

But she won’t.

“Top off?” the younger woman asks.

Startled, Marin slams her laptop shut before McKenzie can see that the computer screen is filled with pictures of her. With Marin seated, the other woman seems even taller and thinner. The light from the window illuminates her skin, which is fresh and unblemished. There’s a gentle smattering of freckles across her pert nose that Marin didn’t notice at the counter, and she’s wearing no makeup other than a rose-tinted gloss on her lips and a few swipes of mascara. She doesn’t need more than that. Her eyes are a golden brown. Shaped like a cat’s. Everything about her seems vibrant. Exotic.