The Break(15)

Heat comes to my cheeks. So he does know exactly what I did to her. And why shouldn’t he? Maybe he’s June’s confidant after all, just like he told me last night.

“Yes. Apparently she did,” I say. I remind myself that I’m a grown woman with a baby and a husband and write-ups in the New York Times Book Review: things I can hold on to. I don’t need to melt beneath his stare. I meet his eyes and hold his gaze, accusing as it is.

“She told me things about you last night,” Sean says in a hushed voice, staring at me like I’m a wild animal under his observation.

“That’s nice, Sean,” I say. “I’m so glad you had a chat about me.”

He ruffles. “You and your baby are lucky to have June,” he says. You and your baby. It comes out like an insult to both of us.

“Her name is Lila. And it’s been nice seeing you,” I say, making my voice sound like I have a backbone, like I’m done with the conversation and he should leave.

“Are you even allowed to be out by yourself?” he asks.

It lands like a slap. My stomach goes queasy; my face stings. Lila, as if sensing me, stirs and whimpers. Tears burn my eyes until my vision blurs.

“What did you just say?”

I blink away my tears. For a moment I wonder if I said those words myself, crazy as that sounds. But I’m sure it wasn’t me—it was someone else. It was—

June.

I turn to see my gorgeous babysitter standing next to our table with a hand on her hip, her cheeks pink from the cold. Her dirty-blond hair is piled into a messy bun, and she’s wearing earmuffs and somehow making them look cool. She tugs them off, looping the plastic around her wrist, never breaking her glare. “What are you doing here?” she asks Sean, a harsh snap in her voice. I can’t believe she’s on my side—it’s in the air between us like a bolt of lightning. Sean goes quiet. When he finally mutters “I’m getting coffee, June,” his voice is so meek it’s almost sad. June stares hard at him, and inside that glare is exactly what she thinks of him: I can see why she kept telling me she wanted to find her own place; I can see that she knows he loves her, and that it probably once felt innocuous but now turns her stomach. Worst of all: I can see she pities him.

Sean withers beneath her stare. He knows, too.

“I’ll see you later, Sean,” June says, a small note of manufactured cheer in her words. He doesn’t head to the register for coffee. He just leaves the café, empty-handed. Ding goes the bell again, and then he’s gone.

June sits. “I’m sorry about him,” she says, unwinding a fake cashmere scarf. “I used to think he meant well and was just overbearing. But now I’m not so sure. Sometimes he worries me.”

“You should be careful, then,” I say, but June only waves her hand at me like I’m overreacting. Lila being born has shifted the dynamic between June and me. We used to be the wife and girlfriend of two close friends who like to go out together at night, and that was all; it was never an even playing field because of our age differences, but it was closer than this. Now me caring about her comes out in more awkward, maternal ways, and I don’t think June likes it. I watch her eyes flicker away from me to the menu on the wall. “I got you a muffin,” I say. “I wasn’t sure if you drank coffee.”

“Thanks,” June says. She takes the muffin and unwraps it hastily like she’s hungry, but then she doesn’t take a bite. Instead, she looks down at Lila and asks, “How’s she doing? I love her little dress.”

I grin—a real one—I can’t help it. This morning I put Lila in a corduroy jumper with a lace collar, and she looks more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen with my own eyes. I’m about to say some version of this, but then June starts crying.

“June,” I say, my throat tight. “I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry for what I did to you.” I give her hand a squeeze and let go. “What I did was so terrible, and there’s no excuse,” I say, my words coming quickly. “I think something’s wrong in my brain. Or at least, there definitely was in that moment. I just, I can’t even explain it.” June’s eyes have a shadow of dark circles, the first I’ve ever seen on her face. She blinks, takes me in. I have no idea what she’s thinking. The coffee shop is so loud I’m not worried about anyone overhearing us, but I still lower my voice to say, “I was sure that you had hurt the baby, and I was so terrified I couldn’t even think straight. I don’t know if I had some kind of mental break or something, or what it was.”

June stops crying. She nods, seeming suddenly curious. And why wouldn’t she be? Most people her age aren’t privy to maternal mental health gone awry. “I’m very, very sorry, June,” I say. “It’s all I can say, even though I know it’s not enough.”

June sniffs. “I’m sorry, too,” she says, her gaze going into her lap.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say. A woman with a broom bumps into our table and mumbles an apology. I pass June a napkin and she wipes beneath her eyes. She misses some of her mascara, but it looks pretty smudged there beneath her lids; I’ve seen her wear it like that sometimes when she had plans at night after working for us: a sweaty dive bar or a dark club, a drink on the High Line overlooking the river. I imagine June sweeping through New York and taking things that aren’t hers without even realizing it. I imagine the way other people’s boyfriends and husbands must look at her.