If You Only Knew(59)

“Debbie, don’t be such a bitch,” Kathleen snaps.

“My sister doesn’t make whorish, total-slut dresses, Debbie,” I say, my voice uncharacteristically hard to my own ears. “So if you ever need another wedding dress, you’ll have to shop elsewhere.”

“Oh! You just got served,” Claudia crows in delight. She and Elle high-five each other.

“Rachel, honestly,” Debbie says, laughing though her eyes are cold. “What’s gotten into you?” I can tell she hopes it’s something lurid and horrible. Cancer. That would make her day.

Of course, I won’t tell them about Adam and Emmanuelle. They’re not those types of friends. Kathleen could be, I guess, but not yet. Elle and Claudia, never. Forget Debbie; I knew her in high school, and she was mean as a snake then, too. No, they’d all side with the strongest social ties, and in my case, that’s Adam. Look how many friends of Jenny’s practically trampled her to be even better friends with Ana-Sofia. And Jenny’s the type of person who knows how to be a great friend. Me, I’ve always been too shy. I have Jenny. I had Adam. I have Mom.

Maybe I need to make more friends. I look across at Kathleen, who smiles back, almost as if she knows something.

Talk between the other three has turned to Jared’s wedding, which will be huge, and if they’ll be invited, which they’d kill for. Who’s doing the cake? Cottage Confections, of course. Nothing but the best for Mrs. Brewster.

“Is Adam a groomsman?” Elle asks.

Adam is f*cking a woman at work, I almost say. Was f*cking. A technicality.

“No, he’s not,” I say. “I’m sorry, ladies, I have to go. I forgot I have to make cupcakes for the nursery school play tomorrow.”

It’s true. Never before have I forgotten such a monumental and life-giving responsibility. Cupcakes. “Rachel, we need you!” the director of the preschool had said. “No one else’s cupcakes are gluten-free, nut-free and still delicious!” At the moment, I’d been thrilled. Validated. That’s how pathetic I was.

I go out to my car, and Kathleen follows. “Hey. We should have lunch or coffee sometime,” she says.

“That’d be great.” I smile, and for the first time tonight, it feels a little genuine.

“Everything okay, Rachel?” she asks.

I pause. It would be awfully nice to unload on someone other than Jenny. But Kathleen and I don’t know each other that well. “Yeah. Thanks, though.”

“You bet.” She sighs. “Well. Back to the great works of literature.” She rolls her eyes and goes back into Elle’s.

I get into the car and head for home. Time to bake the cupcakes and show the world who I am.

* * *

The next day, Adam surprises me by showing up at the girls’ play. A stir goes through the assembled parents and grandparents... Sexism still reigns supreme at these types of events, and most of the parents here are mothers, with the exception of Gil Baines, who’s a firefighter and has a flexible schedule, and Maury Benitz, who’s running for mayor again this fall and is here to remind people how wonderful he is.

Adam has never come to a nursery-school event before, unless it’s after-hours, like the art show. But today, at ten-eleven in the morning, here he is.

“Oh, my God, you’re so lucky,” Claudia murmurs. “Adam! Hey! How are you?”

“Just here to see my little princesses,” he says easily, sliding an arm around me. “And my queen, of course.”

“You two are sickening.” She smiles and looks at the stage.

“This is a surprise,” I murmur, not quite looking at him.

“I want to do better,” he whispers, kissing my neck. My skin either crawls or breaks out in gooseflesh. Or both. Miss Cathy, the girls’ teacher, gives us a wave. Look at the Carvers! Such a great couple!

For the next half hour, we watch our daughters, who are each daisies, wriggle up from a brown blanket, demonstrating the growth cycle. They sing a song about sunshine and raindrops, and I feel my eyes watering, as they so often do at these kinds of things. The children are all so beautiful and innocent. Especially mine. I may be biased.

They deserve a happy family. I grew up in the safe, warm embrace of just that until the day my father died. My girls deserve that, too.

Adam hands me his handkerchief. He still carries one, every day. I should know. I wash and iron them. I wonder if he’s ever had to give Emmanuelle one. Or why. I can’t bring myself to use it. Picture her falling down the escalator again.

Except women like Emmanuelle don’t fall. Even if some spurned wife pushes them, they somehow make things work in their favor.

The girls are so happy to see their father after the play. They wrap their sweet arms around him and ask if he could hear them, and if he wants to meet Tyrion or Jennasys, their friends, then drag him to visit the bathroom, which is one of the highlights of nursery school, since the toilets are tiny.

“You’re so lucky,” Miss Cathy says. “What a wonderful guy.”

“Yes,” I say automatically.

“Not only is he gorgeous, he’s here,” Claudia murmurs. “If he’s good in bed, I may have to kill you.”

“It’s so nice that your husband came, dear,” says an older woman, a grandmother, judging from the fervor with which she shoved her way to the front to film the entire performance. “In my day, husbands never did things like that.”