Brighter than Before

Chapter 1

It was the mac ’n’ cheese that brought me here.

I didn’t know that mac ’n’ cheese would result in impulsive lunacy.

Leading to the parking lot of the country club where I’m sitting, unshowered, wearing my favorite oversized gray sweatpants

and slightly matching gray sweatshirt. It’s my favorite outfit, or “groutfit” as my daughter, Minnie, calls it, which is probably

why I’ve been wearing it for three days straight.

Beside me, on the passenger seat of my Jeep Cherokee, is a crumpled bag of cheese puffs (half eaten and delicious) and a box of Swiss Rolls ripped open and missing two. The smeared wrappers next to the box, leftover traitorous evidence.

I’d gone to the gas station for milk—to make the mac ’n’ cheese—but the Swiss Rolls were calling to me.

Not the most nutritious dinner, but I think they have flour and milk and eggs in them, right? That totally counts.

Lately, I’m not picky.

I’d forgotten that today was the annual One Voice charity gala until I saw Dana and Tad Mathison pull into the gas station. I was parked in one of the far spots opening the

cheese puffs when I spotted their Lexus. Instinctively, I sank down in my seat, pulling the Cubs cap down a little lower over

my brow. These days, I don’t leave the house without some kind of cap and a big pair of sunglasses.

It’s dramatic and probably unnecessary, but I’ve taken to doing what I can to not stand out.

But you do what you have to do for the mac ’n’ cheese.

Tad was wearing a tux, and Dana was decked out in an off-the-shoulder fitted blue formal gown. That’s when I remembered.

The gala.

Had it really been a year since the last one?

I watched them in my side mirror as he filled their car with gas and she reapplied her lipstick.

He made a face at her through the windshield as he squeegeed it off. She puckered her lips in a kiss, and he raised his eyebrows

and nodded enthusiastically.

Flirting. I vaguely remembered flirting.

They looked like a normal, happy couple.

That’s when it really hit me. It had been a year. A year since I’d organized the last charity gala. A year since my life fell apart and I became a very public,

very viral spectacle.

I sank lower, until only the brim of my cap was raised enough for me to peek.

I held my breath and they drove off, thankfully oblivious that I was here at all.

Where was this unbridled anonymity a year ago?

I thought on that for a moment until a crazy idea waved at me.

For a reason that I still don’t fully comprehend, I waved back.

The thought was simple.

You should follow them.

And I did.

I didn’t go home, where a new crime documentary was cued up.

That would’ve made too much sense.

Instead, I dropped the Jeep into gear and peeled out of the parking lot, following Tad and Dana down State Street all the

way to the country club.

I’ve binged enough TV shows to think I knew what I was doing, keeping a distance and driving casually.

The second I saw the club’s familiar exterior, a wave of nausea rolled through me. It’d been a year since I’d been here, and there isn’t one thing about my life now that even remotely resembles my life then.

Because of John, everything changed.

I kept my head low and navigated to the back of the parking lot.

Which is where I am now.

A voice in my brain is shouting: What are you doing here?! But the insane part of my brain shushes that voice and puts duct tape over its mouth.

I have a clear view of the front entrance. It’s a ways away from the numerous expensive cars parked closer to the door. Without

looking away, I slowly reach over and snag the cheese puffs.

Last year, I wore a simple but elegant navy blue gown, and I showed up early to tend to last-minute details.

Little did I know there was something else on my husband’s agenda that I had apparently overlooked.

Blond hair. Silver sequins. Cleavage for days.

She was tossed into my world like a grenade with the pin pulled, and I’m still digging out shrapnel from the edges of my life.

I shake away the memory as John’s new black Porsche drives into the lot.

The nausea I was feeling is immediately replaced with anger. The hurt kind of anger that feels rage-y but helpless.

Of course he was still invited to the gala. He’s the one with the money. And the family name. I’m the outsider, no matter how many

hours I dedicated to this charity or how many years I dedicated to him.

I look down and realize I’m death-gripping the bag of Cheetos, and my hand is covered with the orange dust. I unclench my

fist and am gluttonously (and depressingly) pleased that there are still a few good ones left in the bag.

One by one I stick them in my mouth, still watching as the lights of John’s car turn off. I reach for the fountain Dr Pepper

in the drink holder and take a drink.

And that’s when I see him—tall, broad, simultaneously attractive and nauseating in a well-fitting tuxedo. The one I picked out. The one I had dry-cleaned after every event just like this over the years.

Who’s handling his dry cleaning now?

He closes the door and pulls out his phone, types something on it, then sticks it back in his pocket. When the passenger side

door doesn’t open, I think maybe he’s come alone, but then he walks around to the other side and opens the door, and as if

I’m watching a movie in slow motion, I see a pair of Jimmy Choos step out onto the pavement.

John reaches for her hand, guiding her as she stands, their bodies only inches apart like two people emerging from a secret

tryst in the coatroom.

Or behind a stairwell.

John clearly spared no expense on the forest-green formal gown with a slit that practically goes up to her armpit. This year,

she looks the part. Not a department store sequin in sight.

I stifle a groan, reach for the box of Swiss Rolls, and absently wonder if I could accurately throw a brick from this distance.

I also try to remember how long it had been since John opened the car door for me.

Years and years, you dummy, the struggling voice of logic whispers through the duct tape. Can we get out of here now?

Shhh, another voice says. We’re busy.

I pull open the cellophane wrapper and stick one of the cakes in my mouth. I’ll eat this whole box before the end of the night,

but desperate times call for desperate chocolate.

John leans in and kisses her cheek (gag), closes the door (jerk), then places a strong hand on the small of her back (homewrecker), ushering her out of the parking lot and toward the front door.

They smile and wave at Roxie and Garrett Cartwright like they’re old friends who vacation together. They all walk through

the door, a happy little foursome, and it makes me want to vomit.

But my anger is just a front. Because what really strikes me is how easily replaceable I was. It’s like I never existed at all.

What lies did John tell our old friends? What did he say to stop them from reaching out? Did any of them feel even a twinge

of guilt as this new woman slipped right into the vacant seat I’d left behind?

I finish the pair of Swiss Rolls with a Dr Pepper chaser.

More familiar faces arrive, dressed to the nines and ready to donate. They smile and wave and hug and air-kiss as they make

their way inside.

I stupidly thought it would be hard to find someone to chair the gala in my absence, but I was obviously wrong. The gala,

like everything else in my life, has gone on without me.

We’d talked about a new direction for the decor this year. We were going to go for a brighter, happier theme instead of the

usual pastel palette. It had been my idea, mostly because we’d been doing the same dusty-pink roses for over a decade. Change

is good, I’d argued, and my co-chair, Marcie, had eventually agreed.

I feel differently about change now.

Change used to be flowers stretching their colors in spring. Butterflies emerging from chrysalises. The warm ochre hues of

a park in the fall.

Now? Change feels like a tornado. A wildfire. Sudden and violent destruction without sympathy or warning.

My life is completely unrecognizable thanks to change.

But I do still wonder if Marcie went with the brighter palette.

Not that it matters, except . . . if the decor is all brighter, then there’s still a little bit of my influence left on this

gala, an event that genuinely meant the world to me. To some of the women in our circle, it might’ve been about fancy dresses

and expensive dinners, but to me, the gala was about one thing: raising money for the children’s hospital.

Many people, all walks of life . . . but coming together with one cause, one goal. One Voice. Hence the name.

I reach into the bag of cheese puffs and find it empty as I see my former in-laws’ Cadillac pull into the space directly in front of the door.

I catch a glimpse of my pinched brows and downturned mouth in the rearview mirror.

When Marilyn, John’s mother, found out about her son’s affair, she actually had the nerve to look me in the eye and say, “This never would’ve happened if you’d taken better care of your husband.”

If only I’d been ready with one of the many, many comebacks I’ve since thought of.

“This from a woman who can’t keep a houseplant alive.”

“Really? Well, maybe if you hadn’t done your best to raise a selfish, self-important waste of space, I could’ve done a better

job.”

And my personal favorite, “John has found discount Barbie, someone pretty and shallow with no morals and no fashion sense. People say boys end up marrying

girls just like their mom, so . . .” And then I’d just shrug and smile.

And regret it immediately. Because it’s not in my nature to go low.

Or to be quick with a comeback. In the moment, the comment left me dumbstruck. Silent.

Which was often what happened when I was around John’s family. I always felt like a guest who’d overstayed her welcome. An

underdressed stranger who won a ticket to a party.

They made no secret about the fact that I was absolutely not who they’d hoped would end up with their precious son.