Chapter 3 #2
She opened the door to her office, which had become more of a kid’s storage room for now, to track down a button that she had to sew back onto Jude’s pants.
Once, she’d spent hours in this room, making art with abandon.
Going to grad school for art history and criticism had sucked a lot of the joy out of creating for the sake of creating, and having less time to be by herself meant having the actual energy for projects was rare.
She’d never tell Gwen that she was jealous of Gwen’s hours every day to think only of her own projects — when was the last time Maggie had that kind of freedom?
The privilege to stay home with the kids was just that — a privilege — and she recognized that she was lucky to be able to do so, but it came with its own trade-offs in self-actualization.
One reason she’d been stalling the divorce was that she selfishly couldn’t envision not being home with the kids, and how did she and Gwen reconcile that?
Dozens of half-finished projects sat around the room, mostly for the kids’ sensory bins or costumes or random ideas she’d hyperfixated on. She opened a drawer and found the button she was looking for, then walked out of the room without looking back.
She escaped to the back patio with her phone.
She didn’t bother with a drink. Just needed air, a few minutes of quiet, and the illusion that her life was something she could still control.
The summer heat clung to her skin even after sunset, the air thick with humidity and the scent of crepe myrtles and grilling meat from a neighbor’s yard.
Cicadas screamed from the live oaks overhead, and the patio chair creaked as she sat, letting the warmth of the cushion seep into her legs.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked and a screen door slammed.
The night had that distinct Austin texture — soft and slow and sticky.
She dialed Kiera, hoping this conversation wouldn’t feel as awkward as their last.
“The penis straws are delayed in transit, but I think we’ll still be okay,” Kiera said as soon as her face popped onto the screen.
“Well, hello to you, too. What’s the glitter cannon status?” Maggie asked, stalling uneasily.
“Oh, we’re saving that for the last night. In case Danica tries to bail. Or Pete does. We’re an equal-opportunity disaster prevention unit.”
Izzy’s face popped into frame. “Disaster? Did someone say my name?”
Maggie laughed. “Hey, Izzy.”
“And guess who else is here?” Kiera tilted the camera.
Danica and Pete appeared on screen, lounging on a couch with identical wineglasses and a chaotic energy that screamed sleepover from hell — in the best way.
“Hey,” Maggie said, her broad smile slipping firmly into place like a mask. “Do y’all just hang out, like, all the time now?”
“We watch an episode of Outlander every Friday night,” Danica explained. “We’re finally in Season Three.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Nerds.”
Kiera launched into planning mode. “Okay, so, next Friday night is the big cocktail night. Sequins or leather. No exceptions.”
“Sequins,” Izzy said immediately. “More spill friendly.”
“Saturday’s pool cabana and dinner.”
“When are pole dancing lessons?”
“Well, I looked around but could only find intermediate, and I don’t know if any of you are ready for that yet,” Kiera said with a grimace.
“There are levels?” Maggie asked, baffled.
“There are always levels,” Izzy said ominously.
Danica appeared next to Pete. “I expected at least one of us to pull something. I just hoped it wasn’t me.”
“It was always going to be me,” Maggie groaned. “Broken arm. Broken nose. Broken vagina.”
The group was mid-cackle when the patio door opened. Maggie startled, not expecting to see Gwen back until tomorrow morning.
Gwen stuck her head out. “Hey, did you move the — oh.” Her eyes landed on the screen. “Hey again, everyone.”
“Gwen,” Kiera squealed like they were old friends.
Pete raised her glass. “GWYNETH, my favorite karaoke duet partner.”
“That’s not her name,” Maggie said automatically, feeling strangely jealous, though she didn’t exactly know of whom. “And she doesn’t do karaoke.”
Izzy leaned forward. “What is Gwen short for?”
“You’ll never know,” Gwen said, raising one brow.
Danica snorted. “Quiet menace. I want her on my team.”
Maggie’s lips pressed into a tight line. “Actually—”
Gwen hesitated for half a beat. Her eyes shifted toward Maggie, just long enough for Maggie to realize she was waiting for her to say something. Maggie frowned, looking away.
Pete stole the phone from Kiera, her face far too close to the camera. “Did you get the childcare sorted?”
Gwen glanced toward Maggie, letting her take the reins.
Maggie’s whole body tensed. “Uh… yeah, about that.”
The group erupted with cheers before anyone could hear Maggie add something after the word yeah. Someone said something about matching outfits. Izzy started chanting, “Group trip! Group trip!”
Gwen ducked back inside. The camera panned to a giddy Danica.
Maggie smiled. She laughed. She nodded along. And when she hung up, her hands were trembling.
Inside, Gwen was rinsing a cup at the sink, water running in a slow stream like nothing had happened.
The kitchen gleamed with the kind of thoughtful elegance that only an architect like Gwen could pull off — custom cabinetry, quartzite counters, matte brass hardware.
The pendant lights over the island cast a warm glow over the wide-plank oak floors.
Maggie had picked the tile behind the stove, a Moroccan-style pattern in smoky blues and grays.
They’d argued about it for a week, then spent an afternoon installing it together, laughing when Gwen got grout on her nose.
That memory lived here, embedded in the walls, even if neither of them ever talked about it.
Now Gwen moved through the space like it was neutral ground, like she hadn’t just detonated a social bomb in the group chat.
Gwen’s sleeve slipped up as she reached for a cup, revealing the edge of her tattoo. Maggie had almost forgotten about it — the sharp Gothic arched window framed in vines. The lines were clean, deliberate, the kind of precision Gwen brought to everything.
It used to fascinate her, that balance of structure and wildness. Now it just made her ache a little. The vines had crept further than she remembered, curling around the empty space like they were trying to fill it.
She caught herself rubbing her own arm, thumb brushing the petals of her old peony tattoo. The ink had faded a little—too many summers, too much sunscreen forgotten—but she still loved it. Hers was softer, looser, like it hadn’t known what it wanted to be when she’d gotten it.
Gwen’s was all intent. Maggie’s was all impulse. Somehow, that had once worked. Now? The stark difference was all she could see.
“I was going to tell them,” Maggie said, her voice sharper than she intended. “And then you popped in and they lost their minds. Gwyneth?”
Gwen didn’t turn around. “Going along with it seems easier for everyone.”
“Easier?” Maggie echoed, incredulous. “Not for me it isn’t.”
“What do you want, Maggie?” Gwen asked, finally turning to face her. Her tone was infuriatingly calm. “You want to be separated but not divorced. You want me to sleep in the guest room, but you won’t tell your friends. I don’t make decisions anymore because no matter what, it’s always wrong.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No? Because it sounds an awful lot like you’re mad I went along with yet another decision you didn’t want to deal with.”
Maggie blinked. “I’ve been dealing with everything. The kids. The house. Pretending we’re fine—”
“No one asked you to pretend,” Gwen snapped. “You’re the one who didn’t want to tell them.”
“I was trying to keep things from getting messy with them,” Maggie hissed. “I can tell everyone after the bachelorette party. Or the wedding.”
“They’re already messy. You just don’t want to be the one who gets blamed for making it official.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is living in limbo because you won’t pick a direction.”
Maggie took a step forward. “You think this is easy for me? That I’m sitting here loving the uncertainty?”
Gwen crossed her arms. “You say you’re tired of making all the choices, but you won’t let anyone else make them either.”
The words hit hard, because they weren’t wrong. And Maggie hated that Gwen had the upper hand in this — hated that she could sound so reasonable while Maggie felt like she was spinning out.
“So yes, I’m going along with your plan.
We can just pretend we’re a happily married couple for the weekend and you can tell them when you’re ready,” Gwen said.
“Unless you’d rather be the one to explain why I’m not there.
” She slowly set the rinsed cup into the drying rack and walked out of the kitchen.
Maggie stared after her, the silence loud enough to drown in. Her stomach twisted. She was flushed, breath tight, heart hammering like it wanted to climb out of her chest. Her brain flooded with a thousand exit strategies — anything that might feel less awful than this.
She could disappear. Change her name. Start a candle shop in Portugal. Or maybe one of those weird bookstores in a town with no stoplights. Somewhere Gwen would never think to look.
Instead, she just stood there, still clutching her phone, as if it could offer her a way out.