16
When I wake the next morning, my mind goes straight to the terrible scene from last night: police interviews, Derrick’s arrest,
Ellen breaking the unsettling news to her husband, whose face immediately turned white. I didn’t feel safe staying at the
house, so I checked into a nearby Holiday Inn, falling asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
As I look around the room, I’m both relieved to be free from yesterday’s nightmare and hopeful I haven’t been transported
into another one. Fortunately, I’m alone—for the moment, at least. The large bedroom is attached to a sitting area beside
a balcony, and the décor is curiously tropical with palm-print art on the walls and an enormous conch shell on the coffee
table. It looks more like a hotel than a home, and, as evidenced by the Four Seasons Hualalai room service menu on the bedside
table, my hunch is confirmed. So I’ve gone from a roadside Holiday Inn to a five-star resort. Nice upgrade, if you could call
it that. But the bigger question is: What am I doing here, and who am I with?
I glance at the ring on my left hand—gold, with a large rectangular diamond solitaire. It looks familiar, but then again,
so do most radiant-cut rings in that classic, cookie-cutter, Tiffany sort of way. But, no, I’ve definitely seen this one before.
I freeze when the door clicks open, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. Kevin?
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he says, holding two coffee cups. “I got your latte.”
Waves of shock course through me as I think back to that night at Le Rêve in San Francisco. Only a week has passed since I
arrived at Rosie’s house, an emotional mess over the breakup, which now feels like a century ago. Besides, I’ve had more important
things to deal with. But now this? I’m married to Kevin, like none of it even happened?
I take a sip as he sits on the edge of the bed beside me. “It was hard to tell in the dark when we got in last night, but
this place is gorgeous,” he continues, smoothing his perfectly coiffed hair—thick and dark, always combed in place, not a
strand askew. “I went out for a walk at sunrise, then hit the gym. Oh, and I booked us a cabana by the pool. It wasn’t cheap,
but I figured if there was ever a time to splurge, it’s on our honeymoon.”
Our honeymoon. I freeze, processing the words he’s just uttered. So, in this version of reality Kevin proposed, and here we are, living
happily ever after. It’s what I wanted before all of this started—at least, what I thought I wanted.
“I keep getting texts from people saying how much they loved our wedding,” he continues. “It really was special, wasn’t it?”
“Um, yeah,” I mutter as he lifts a pink garment from the floor (mine, obviously), which he neatly folds and tucks into a dresser
drawer.
“My messy, messy wife,” he says playfully.
As I gulp my coffee, he adjusts the collar of his pressed blue linen shirt, smiling into a nearby mirror, his perfectly white
teeth gleaming. “All right, my bride,” he continues. “I’m going to head down to the cabana. Why don’t you get ready, then
meet me by the pool?”
I nod as Kevin gives me a quick kiss, slips on his Ray-Ban aviators, then heads out the door. I venture to the bathroom and take a long look at myself in the mirror. My tan skin (a spray tan, no doubt) is a sharp contrast against my white silk lace-trimmed nightie. Honeymoon attire, I guess. I’m thinner than usual, and toned, too. I cringe, wondering if I’d subjected myself to months of pre-wedding CrossFit. I hate CrossFit. My hair is longer, and also Barbie-blond, curled in those Instagram-perfect, zigzaggy waves that I’ve never had
the patience or interest to master.
I run a brush through the ends, and a clump of hair falls out and lands on the floor beside my freshly pedicured toes (bubblegum-pink).
Fortunately, I don’t appear to be a cancer patient. It’s just a hair extension. Me? Hair extensions? I’m equally surprised
by the massive amount of skin care and makeup products splayed out on the counter, as if I’ve barged my own personal Sephora
across the Pacific. Has marriage to Kevin made me mental, or just someone who’s trying way too hard?
I can’t even begin to imagine how long it takes me ( this me) to get ready, nor do I have the slightest clue where to start, so I reduce my fourteen-hundred-step get-ready process
to two: sunscreen and lip balm. No need to go full glam for a day at the pool, I reason.
In the dresser, I find a bikini and matching sarong, then slide my feet into a pair of Gucci sandals. I spot my phone charging
on the entryway console beside a card that reads: Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Canfield . Lena Canfield. I used to turn the name over in my mind on repeat, relishing the mere thought of being Kevin’s wife, but
now it hits a different note—somehow less marital bliss and more, well, cloistering, like a wool sweater that scratches my
skin.
I reach for a bottle of sunscreen and a book, which I toss into a woven bag, before noticing a gift on the coffee table: a
Scrabble box, tied with a white bow, next to a bottle of pinot grigio. I tear open the card:
To the beautiful bride and handsome groom,
Wishing you both a happy life of love and laughter—and fun and games.
All my love,
Rosie
“Hi,” I say, sinking into the cabana beside Kevin.
“Don’t look now,” he whispers covertly, “but Cameron Diaz is at five o’clock.”
I turn to the right, where the blond actress sits at the edge of the pool, dangling her long, tan legs in the water as she
laughs with the man beside her.
“Babe,” Kevin whispers, shaking his head, “you’re being too obvious .”
“Oh, sorry,” I reply, looking away quickly. “I don’t think she saw me.”
He nods, his irritation passing as he folds my rumpled towel into a perfect square, then leans his head back against the chaise.
“Paradise, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I say, reaching for the sunscreen.
“No makeup today, huh?”
I shrug. “Aren’t we going swimming?”
“Right, yeah,” he says, studying my face. “I’m just surprised. You never leave the house without foundation.”
I touch my face self-consciously. “Sorry,” I say, less apologetic and more sarcastic, as I slip on my sunglasses before he
has a chance to comment on my lack of mascara.
“No, no,” he continues. “You just look different, but still beautiful, of course.”
“Look what Rosie sent us,” I say, changing the subject as I pull the Scrabble box from my bag. “Wine, too. Thoughtful, right?”
“Ah, how nice,” Kevin replies.
“Should we... play?”
“Babe, you know games aren’t really my... thing.”
“Right,” I say, a little deflated, reaching for the book in my bag as Kevin waves down a pool attendant to adjust the nearby
umbrella when a stream of sunlight filters into our cabana.
“Just a little more to the left,” he says to the man, who dutifully rolls the umbrella forward and back, then to the left again, per Kevin’s instructions. “Come to think of it, maybe if you push it a bit more to the right.” He pauses, as if calculating the exact angle of the sun, and holding this poor man hostage while he deliberates.
“Kevin,” I whisper, more worried about the pool attendant than a little sun on my face, “I think it’s fine.”
He frowns, then lets out a long sigh, ultimately deciding to adjust the cabana’s curtain before handing the befuddled hotel
employee a ten-dollar bill. “Thanks, man,” he says. “Appreciate your help.”
I don’t care about the damn umbrella , I want to say, just play a game with me! Instead, I hold my tongue, and decide to take a plunge. Kevin follows, with towels for both of us.
“Wait,” he says as I climb in, “shouldn’t you put your hair up?”
I shake my head, confused.
Kevin smiles. “Hold on, I think I have a hair tie in my bag. Just a sec.” He returns a moment later with a scrunchie, which
I stare at for a long moment, before reluctantly twisting my hair into high bun. He’s either the perfect husband, or the world’s
most anal.
We swim a few laps, at our own pace and in our own lanes—an apt metaphor for the marriage I’ve just found myself in. Sure,
Kevin has always been somewhat of a perfectionist (don’t even get me started on his sock drawer), but this is like perfectionism
on steroids. He’s uptight and rigid. What’s worse is that he seems to expect that I fit into his carefully scripted regimen.
Is this version of myself programmed to fall in line?
This isn’t the marriage I envisioned—far from it. I can’t help but notice the couple in the shallow end, about our age. They’re
sipping cocktails, obviously a little tipsy—she on his lap, his arms wrapped around her waist. Would Kevin ever hold me like
that, or would he bristle at the thought of it?
I towel off, heading back to the cabana, where I order two margaritas, with salt on the rim. The drinks arrive just as Kevin
returns, frowning. “Uh, sir? We didn’t order these.”
“Oh, I did,” I say quickly, correcting him.
He laughs. “Honey, it’s barely eleven a.m. Seriously?”
“Seriously,” I say, officially annoyed. The waiter stands motionless and wide-eyed, obviously hesitant to pick a side, but
I choose mine. “Thank you, sir,” I continue, ignoring Kevin. “I’ll take both.”
He folds his arms across his chest as I have a sip, licking a bit of smoky black volcanic salt from the rim. “What was that all about?”
I shrug. “I feel like having a drink. What’s the big deal?”
“Okay,” he says. “It’s just... not like you, that’s all.” He scratches his head. “I mean, you never drink in the morning—or
sleep in, for that matter—and, I have to admit, I’m a little shocked that you haven’t hit the gym yet.”
“The gym? No, thanks.” I take another sip. “Aren’t we supposed to be on vacation?”
“Totally,” he replies, his good-natured expression returning. “You just seem a little... off today, that’s all.”
That’s because I am off , I want to say. Instead, I busy myself with the lunch menu, stomach growling. “Maybe I’m just hungry.”
I flag down a waiter and order fish tacos, with extra aioli and fries, before handing the menu to Kevin, which he studies
momentarily with a critical eye.
“I’m going to pass,” he finally says, holding up his hand virtuously. “The keto options are lacking. I think I’d rather hold
out for dinner.”
Anyway. I delve back into my book until lunch arrives, which looks divine. I feel Kevin’s eyes on me as I dig in, wiping a bit of
aioli from the corner of my mouth. “You sure you don’t want a bite? This is outrageously good.”
“No, no,” Kevin replies, clutching his ice water like a rosary around his neck.
“Suit yourself,” I say, reaching for the second margarita as he turns back to his iPad.
Sure, Kevin has always been disciplined, principled, but he was fun, wasn’t he? I think back to the night we met—at a karaoke bar in San Francisco for a mutual friend’s birthday party. We somehow got paired to sing a song together—“Brandy” by the O’Jays. I smile to myself, remembering how awkward it was, how off-key we sounded, but also how much fun we had. Then again, Kevin never would sing karaoke with me after that—even when I begged him to on the night of our first anniversary. No, the more time passed, the more buttoned-up he seemed to become. Now that we’re married, he’s clearly taken that to exponential levels. I watch as he wipes his sunglasses with a lens cloth from his bag, holding them up to the light until every last smudge is buffed clean.
“Hey,” he says a moment later, slipping on his shirt. “I need to make some work calls. Catch up with you a little later?”
“Okay,” I reply, slipping back into the pool, cocktail in hand.
“Your husband is soooooo handsome,” says a woman who appears to be in her early fifties, swimming over to me. She wipes a
strand of her dark hair from her face, revealing a touch of gray at the temples. “Are you two on your... honeymoon ?”
“Thanks,” I say, forcing a smile. “And, yes, guilty as charged.”
“Awww, newlyweds!” She smiles nostalgically. “I’m Gina.” She points across the pool. “See the guy under the umbrella, good
hair, reading a book?”
I look over, then nod, as the man of the moment runs his hand through his chin-length salt-and-pepper hair, oblivious to us
gawking from the pool.
“That’s my husband, Grant,” she says, proudly. “Damn, why do men get better-looking as they age? I mean, I’m not complaining.
I get to be married to him, and he’s amazing. But it’s not fair, you know?”
I laugh, loving her immediately. “I know, it isn’t fair. But for the record, your husband does have amazing hair—and so do
you!”
“You’re too young to know how menopause wreaks its havoc,” she replies, tugging at her long dark ponytail. “Honey, I may be
going down, but I’m going down with a fight .” She grins. “These are extensions.”
“Same,” I say, gesturing to my messy bun, before taking the last sip of my drink. “Where are you guys from?”
“LA,” Gina says. “Grant’s a history professor at UCLA. I work in Hollywood.”
“Oh wow.”
“I know, so LA, right?” She grins. “I started my career in publishing—in New York. I always thought I’d become a book editor,
something like that, but you know how things go. I ended up getting hired as a book scout, then moved to LA to work at a studio.
I met Grant, and, well, the rest is history.” She takes a sip of her drink. “How about you?”
“Uh,” I reply, trying to remember what biographical sketch applies to the moment. “San Francisco,” I finally say. “I...
work in finance—investor relations. But I’m from the Seattle area, Bainbridge Island, if you know it.”
“I do!” Gina exclaims. “There’s a famous author who lives there. I was on the team that turned one of her books into a movie
for Universal. Sounds like a lovely place.”
“It is,” I say. “I miss it.”
She glances back at her husband, nose still buried in his book. “It feels like a million years since our honeymoon. Oh, the
memories. We’re celebrating our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary on this trip.”
“Congratulations.”
“Soak it all up, honey—all the newness, all the firsts. Sometimes I wish I could go back and relive the beginning of our marriage—before
the kids.” She pauses, laughing. “Before I needed Spanx. The early days are so special. It’s the two of you against the world.”
“Yeah,” I say, pretending to understand.
“Let me ask you this,” she adds, leaning in. “What sealed the deal for you? As in, what made you want to jump into wedded
bliss? His breakfast-making skills? A mutual love of Will Ferrell? The way he treats his mother?”
I laugh. “Definitely not his breakfast-making skills.”
She grins. “Then what?”
“Um, I guess it was... a combination of things?”
“Right,” she continues. “When you know, you know.”
“How about you?” I ask, tossing the ball back in her court.
Her expression turns nostalgic, eyes drifting out to the ocean, before nodding decidedly. “On our third date, he made me laugh
so hard I peed my pants. Like, for real.”
“Wow,” I say, laughing. “Seriously?”
“Uh-huh,” she continues. “Yeah, he’s a professor, but Grant is fun—like really fun . Never a dull moment with my guy.”
“I love that,” I say, a little envious as I try to recall a time Kevin made me laugh, though I come up empty.
“Well,” my new friend says, bobbing in the water, “I better get back to the hubs. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.” She
grins. “Wait, I didn’t even get your name!”
“Lena,” I say.
She winks. “Have fun !”
Fun is hardly how I’d characterize my afternoon, which I mostly spend avoiding Kevin and staring at the clock, willing the minutes
to pass. After a quick shower, I slip into a halter-neck maxi-sundress and head to the beach. I find an empty chaise lounge
under the shade of a palm tree. Yawning, I lean back against the cushion, exhausted—mentally, anyway. I can’t help but fantasize
about making my escape. Maybe if I close my eyes, I’ll fall asleep, and this will all drift away.
A shiver creeps down my spine when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Kevin.
“There you are,” he says, sitting on the edge of my chaise lounge. “What are you doing down here?”
I rub my eyes. “Just relaxing.”
“Right, well, while you were napping, I went on an epic hike.” His self-righteous tone grates my nerves; it takes every ounce of my strength not to clock his perfect jaw.
Fortunately, Gina, my friend from the pool, approaches, saving me from arrest.
“Look, it’s Barbie and Ken!” she says, giggling as she turns to her husband. “Grant, aren’t they the most adorable newlyweds
you’ve ever seen?”
Her husband smiles, extending his hand to Kevin, then to me.
“You two coming to the luau?” Gina asks, pointing to the nearby lawn, which is studded with gaslit tiki torches.
“Nah,” Kevin begins, “we’re—”
“Sure,” I interject. “I’ve always wanted to learn the hula.”
“Yay,” Gina squeals. “Come on, let’s go together!”
“I don’t know about this, Lena,” Kevin whispers tentatively, as a woman in a grass skirt anoints us each with a floral lei.
Our native instructors sway their hips, encouraging us to do the same. Gina and Grant fit right in, dancing effortlessly to
Hawaiian slack-key music as I attempt to follow along pathetically.
“I’m awful,” I say to Gina, laughing.
“We all are,” she replies. “That’s the point.” She glances at Kevin, who’s standing alone, arms folded across his chest, brooding.
“I take it he’s not into the hula?”
I shrug, unable to hide my annoyance.
Gina grimaces. “Tell him to stop being an NPC and get out here!”
“NPC?”
“Oh,” she replies, with a chuckle. “You clearly don’t have teenage boys. NPC is video-game-speak for ‘non-player character’—you
know, like a person who’s there, but not really there?” She laughs, continuing to talk as she moves her hips in a circular
pattern, but I’m too lost in thought to make out her words. “It’s become quite the meme in our house.”
Kevin, a non-player character? Totally. But did Gina also, unknowingly, diagnose me ? All those years winning at the corporate game, striving for the perfect partner, perfect life—I was hardly an active participant. I was merely playing a part, like an... NPC.
“Hey,” Kevin says, reaching for my hand. “Our dinner reservation is in a few minutes.” He smiles politely at Gina, then back
at me. “We should probably cut out.”
“You two have a beautiful night,” she says, before Grant gives her a spin that looks professionally choreographed. I’m struck
by their synchronicity, the way they flow together across the lawn: He senses her next move; she anticipates his. They know
how to read each other, how to harmonize, like two beautiful instruments tuned in the same key. But Kevin and me? From the
outside looking in, we’re #couplegoals, I suppose, but peel back the facade and it’s an entirely different story. Together,
we’re uncoordinated and sorely out of tune. We don’t know how to dance in time. In fact, I now realize that we never did.
At the restaurant, I pick at my plate, dissecting the beets from the arugula, swirling my fork around in circles to pass the
time. If Kevin feels any tension, he doesn’t let on; in fact, he expertly steers our conversation from one topic to the next,
avoiding the most important subject: us.
“I got a text from Matt, today,” he says in a breaking-news sort of tone, the way one might preface a story about someone’s
grandma who passed or a friend who got mugged. It takes a moment, but I connect the dots. Matt is... Kevin’s high school
best friend—right. “Apparently he and Natalie are expecting again,” Kevin continues. “I think that makes baby number...
four? Or is it five ?” He rolls his eyes as if we’re in lockstep about parenthood, or, rather, in our annoyance of other people’s parenthood journeys.
“Can you even imagine having all those kids?” he continues, equal parts baffled and exhausted.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I mean... maybe?”
“Wait,” Kevin says quickly. “You’re not reconsidering what we talked about, are you? Lena, I thought we agreed that kids were off the table.”
“Well,” I begin, proceeding cautiously, “I’m allowed to have second thoughts, aren’t I?”
He laughs, refolding his napkin into a perfect rectangle as the smile disappears from his face like a fading sunset. “You’re
kidding, right?”
“No, actually. I’m not.”
Kevin leans back in his chair, flinching as if I’ve just tossed a stick of dynamite across the table. “Diapers, strollers...
tantrums...” He shakes his head. “You know I’m not that guy.”
With his spotless Porsche, fancy Italian espresso machine, and a sock drawer that would make Marie Kondo swoon, no, Kevin
is not that guy. While I may have once found these qualities endearing—exceptional, even—I see things differently now. Kevin
is not necessarily a bad guy. He’s just not my guy.
We pick at our dinners, each of us in our own private world on opposite sides of the table.
“I’m sorry,” Kevin finally says, breaking the silence. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” I reply, forcing a smile. “I understand.”
He sighs, his pinched expression softening as his mouth opens, letting out a yawn. “That hike really wiped me out. Should
we call it a night?”
I shake my head. “You go ahead. I’m going to sit outside for a bit, look at the stars. They say that you can see the constellations
in Hawaii better than anywhere on earth.”
Kevin shrugs, yawning again.
“Don’t wait up,” I say as he rises to his feet, giving me an obligatory kiss on the cheek.
“What can I get started for you, miss?” the bartender asks as I slide into a stool at the little tiki bar by the beach.
“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “Maybe some kind of potion to fix my life?”
“One of those days, huh?”
I nod. “White wine usually does the trick.”
“Sauvignon blanc?”
“Perfect,” I say as he uncorks a bottle, giving me a generous pour, just as Gina approaches, waving.
“Hey! I thought that was you!” She slips into the stool beside me, eying my shoulders. “Uh-oh, looks like someone got a little
too much sun today.”
I nod, wincing at the sight of my arms. “Yeah, probably should have reapplied my sunscreen—oops.”
“Grant’s the same way. SPF is his best friend. Without it, the man turns into a lobster.” She laughs. “Anyway, he’s at the
front desk booking a snorkeling trip for us tomorrow, which is, honestly, the last thing I want to do, but sometimes you take
one for the team, you know?” She grins, looking around. “Where’s the hubs?”
“Kevin turned in early,” I reply indifferently, but there’s no fooling Gina, who raises an eyebrow.
“Everything all right in paradise?” she asks, ordering herself a Negroni.
Tears sting my eyes as I search her face, my mouth opening, but no words come out.
“Come here,” she says, leaning in to embrace me as I begin to weep. “What happened, sweetie?”
I want to tell her everything about my predicament: Kevin, how lonely I am, how lost I feel. I want to say it all, but I don’t.
“Lena?” she says, clutching my shoulders. “What can I do to help?”
“It’s just been a... really hard week,” I say, dabbing a napkin to my tearstained cheeks. “It’s a bit too complicated to
explain.”
“Try me,” she says, taking a sip of her drink.
“Nah,” I say, pulling myself together. “How about I tell you a story instead—an idea for one of your movies.”
She leans in. “Shoot.”
“So, there’s this woman,” I begin. “She’s never really known true love. Sure, there were plenty of opportunities—first dates,
relationships, what-ifs—but nothing ever stuck. Maybe it’s because of her childhood, her mother’s relationship drama and subsequent
death, or the fact that she had trouble trusting her gut and opening herself up to new possibilities. But then she goes home
to visit her aunt, falls asleep, and the next morning she wakes up in Paris, married to a Frenchman she met at a wedding a
decade prior. The following day, it’s a farmer in Pennsylvania from years ago; after that, her high school boyfriend; then
an Irish guy she met on a train in Switzerland after college. With each day comes a different reality, a different relationship
from her past that she has the chance to experience as if she’d chosen it, as if she’d said yes.”
“Not bad,” she says, intrigued. “So, it’s a rom-com, then?”
“More like a horror film,” I reply sarcastically.
Gina laughs. “What would you call the movie?”
I smile, thinking of Spencer, that night on Bainbridge Island. “ Insignificant Others. ”
“I dig that,” Gina replies, glancing at her phone. “Maybe I can help you find an agent. You’ve got to be really careful with
agents.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking another sip.
“Shoot,” she says, looking down at her phone. “It’s Grant. He needs my ID for the rental car tomorrow.” She hugs me again.
“No more tears, all right?”
“All right,” I promise.
“And, sweetie, whatever you’re going through, you’ll get through it. I know you will.”
I let out a long sigh. “Well, I’ve got to get through this night first. Honestly, I’d pay a small fortune to get my hands
on a sleeping pill.”
“Oh, you want an Ambien?” She opens her purse. “It’s the only way I can survive a long flight—completely knocked out.”
I nod. “Yes, please .”
She hands me a little white pill, which I immediately wash down with a sip of wine. “This will send you off to dreamland. In the morning, it’ll all be better.”
I hope so.
She winks. “See you tomorrow at the pool?”
I nod. “Yeah... tomorrow.”
I toss my sandals on a rock, then sink my bare feet into the warm sand, letting the wind have its way with my hair—to hell
with the extensions.
Thanks to the Ambien, my eyelids grow heavier with each step. When I spot a chaise lounge ahead, I lie down, covering my legs
with a discarded towel. The beach is empty—just me and the night sky speckled with stars, which keep me company like old friends—the
kind that stay long after everyone’s left the party to help clean up and load the dishwasher.
“Please,” I whisper, chin trembling as I set my glass in the sand. “I want to go home. Please let me go home.”
I can barely keep my eyes open. Sleep hovers, ready to pounce, and with one last yawn, I let it... take me away.