Chapter 5
Hannah walks into Café Amore like she’s in a damn perfume commercial. Loose waves, soft smile, that glowy, glossy, just-had-sex-and-a-fruit-smoothie look. She practically skips to our table, like happiness has given her joints extra bounce.
“You look happy,” I say, narrowing my eyes, because I’m suspicious of anyone radiating this much serotonin before noon.
She shrugs, grinning. “I am happy.”
And I believe her. God help me, I do. You can’t fake thus level of effortless, warm-blooded unless you’ve either just fallen in love or finally got your period after a pregnancy scare.
“So… things between you and Eli are good?” I ask, stabbing at the lemon wedge floating in my water like it personally offended me.
“They’re great.” She leans in like we’re teenage girls again and says, almost whispering, “He finally told his mom to take a hike and we decided to start trying for a baby. ”
I blink. “Wait. What? Like… now-now?”
“Yeah,” she beams. “I already quit my job. Eli and I are screwing like bunnies.”
I choke on air. “Ah. There it is. That glow. A good old-fashioned sex glow. What finally made him say bye-bye to smother-in-law?”
She laughs, tossing her hair back. “We had a half-day a few Saturdays ago,” she says.
She teaches high school, “Eli’s car was in the shop, so he was using mine.
He picked me up and we decided to grab lunch.
” She winks, her voice dipping into the conspiratorial.
“And we were... right there on the kitchen counter. Just as I got on all fours, bam! The front door slams open and in walks mommy.”
I blink. “No.”
“Oh yes. Apparently, seeing my car parked in the driveway during the day constituted an ‘emergency.’” She rolls her eyes so hard I think they might stay that way.
“And unlike a normal human being, she just stood there while we scrambled to get dressed. Then she calls me a whore. Right to my face. Guess seeing her baby boy mid-thrust knocked the filter right off her.”
I whistle low. “Damn.”
“You should’ve seen Eli,” she continues. “He snapped . It was like all the years of silent frustration finally burst out of him. He unloaded on her. I just stood there, wrapped in a dish towel, watching it all go down like a telenovela.”
“And now?” I ask.
She grins, practically glowing. “Now? He feels so bad for not believing me before. The things he’s done to apologize...” Her eyes go dreamy for a second. “Goddamn.”
I mutter, “Lucky bitch.”
She laughs. “You and Mike still haven’t…?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
She leans back, eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. “How long’s it been now?”
“Two months.”
Her mouth drops open. “Wow.”
Yeah. Wow. Like I hadn’t already counted the days like tally marks on a prison wall. Like I hadn’t already laid awake wondering if I should just climb on top and pretend everything was fine.
Then I see her.
Tall. Blonde. Pilates-core in motion. Mackenna struts into the café like the air should part for her and honestly, it probably would if it had any self-respect.
My blood goes cold. I duck. Hard .
“What are you doing?” Hannah hisses. “Jesus, Leni, people are looking.”
“Shhh.” I slink lower behind the potted fern like it’s my invisibility cloak. “Don’t make a scene.”
“You are the scene.” She side-eyes me while casually adjusting her hair, then glances in the mirror behind me. “Okay… the blonde? Is she the one you’re hiding from?”
I nod from the trench of my shame. “Yeah. That’s Mckenna.”
She makes a face. “Ooooh.”
So, she knows. Of course she knows. Mackenna: The human red flag in business casual.
Hannah raises a brow. “Why are we stalking her?”
“It’s not stalking.” I sit back up, pretend to sip my now room-temp latte. “According to her Instagram, she comes here every Tuesday. Cheat day. Poppy seed bagel and oat milk latte. Like clockwork.”
Hannah makes a gagging sound. “I said why we’re stalking her, not how.”
Caught. Dammit. I press my lips together and glare at the condensation on my water glass like it’s personally responsible for my spiralling mental state .
Mackenna walks out, swinging her eco-friendly bag like she owns the planet and everyone’s husband on it.
I sit up straighter. Breathe. Then blurt, way too loudly: “I think Mike’s screwing her.”
The guy at the next table looks up, mid-bite. I glare at him until he looks away. Mind your croissant, Chad.
Hannah blinks, mouth falling open for the second time today. “Mike would never.”
I give her a look.
“Okay… probably never,” she amends, cautiously. “Where is this coming from?”
I exhale so hard it shakes my straw wrapper. “I’ve suspected for a while. They’re always… close. Too close. The giggling. The looks. He’s been distant. And yesterday…” I pause, stomach clenching, “I think she was in the house.”
Hannah blanches. “Wait, what?”
“He said he was at work. But I know he wasn’t. Something was off. Like, the bed had just been used, his car was there, but somehow, he wasn’t.”
Hannah’s silent now. Not dismissive. Not sceptical. Just quiet. Processing.
I want her to tell me I’m crazy. I want her to laugh it off and call me paranoid and tell me I’ve just been through a lot lately and my brain is inventing shadows where there aren’t any.
But she doesn’t.
She just reaches for my hand, warm and steady. “So, what are you gonna do?”
“I have to confront him, right?” I say it more to myself than to Hannah, like maybe if I say it out loud, it’ll feel more like a plan and less like impending doom.
“You do,” she says, nodding, calm like she’s talking about returning a pair of shoes and not detonating my marriage. “But I get it if you need to wait until you’re ready. Just… don’t let it eat you alive.”
Too late.
She leans back, takes a sip of her stupidly perfect cappuccino. “So… what happened at work?”
My heart stutters. “What?”
“You’re not at work,” she says, eyes on me, too level. Too knowing.
I stare at her, caught, my spoon dangling mid-air like it forgot its job.
“I quit,” I finally say, forcing a shrug. “Leonard made a very bad handshake deal in a strip club where, I obviously was not invited. Once he sobered up, he started blaming me for not being there.”
“Seriously?” she asks .
I nod.
“So, you are gonna be home for a while, huh?” she asks looking not so pleased.
“Does that bother you?” why should it?
“No,” she quickly shakes her head, “I just hate that a sexist like Leonard can take your job, just like that.”
We fill the rest of lunch with harmless nothings. Trending Netflix shows. Some new bakery near her place. One of her sister’s kids learning to say “fuck” at the dinner table. I laugh in the right places. I nod when I’m supposed to.
But everything feels… fuzzy. Off-kilter. Like the table’s slanted just enough that everything I say keeps sliding sideways.
And I feel like a paranoid jerk. The worst kind.
The kind who creates drama in her head, then starts connecting dots that maybe weren’t even part of the same picture.
The kind who spies on blondes in cafés and reads into door latches and unanswered texts and suddenly decides her whole marriage is built on lies.
But.
What if I’m right?
What if this is the beginning of the end and I’m just dressing it up in self-doubt because it’s easier than facing it head-on ?
I look at Hannah, laughing at something on her phone. Happy. Glowing. And I want to cry. I want to disappear under the table and curl up next to the crumbs and wait for someone to put me back together.
Instead, I sit up straighter. Smile tighter. And say, “We should do this again soon.”
Because if I can’t fix anything else today, I can at least pretend to be okay for another fifteen minutes.
On the way home, I make a detour.
I don’t even know why I go. Maybe I’m a masochist. Or maybe I just want to get it over with, the parental performance review I never asked for.
Either way, I find myself driving to their house, stomach in knots, brain rehearsing all the ways this could go wrong.
Which is rich, because I know exactly how it’ll go.
They won’t scream. They won’t cry. They’ll just disapprove; quietly, pointedly, like it’s an art form. My parents don’t hate me. That would require passion. No, they tolerate me, the way you tolerate an old treadmill in the basement. I’m useful. Or at least I was.
The Keira Era started when I was ten. Baby miracle, the second coming.
And I, poor dumb kid, actually believed she was for me.
A sister to love. A best friend. What I got was a new sun to orbit around.
At first, they tried to keep it fair with matching gifts, equal attention, but it didn’t take long.
Eventually, she got the bike. I got told to “be mature.” She blew out my birthday candles.
I was “so big-hearted to share.” They didn’t ask me to babysit, they expected it.
Every weekend. Every break. Like her life was my unpaid internship.
It’s why I started working at sixteen. Some kids wanted pocket money. I just wanted out.
So yeah. I’m not expecting hugs and casseroles.
I walk in and Mom barely looks up from her tablet. “Leni? What are you doing here?”
“Hello to you too, Mom,” I deadpan.
Dad walks in from the den, golf polo tucked into shorts like he’s starring in a country club catalogue. “Hey sweetie! What are you doing here?”
Seriously? Do they rehearse this?
“Hi, Dad,” I say, my smile brittle. “Just thought I’d drop by.”
Mom stands, already reaching for her designer tote. “You should’ve called. Your father and I are on our way to the club.”
“Big game today,” Dad says, puffed up like he’s going to war and not sipping chardonnay by a lawn.
They’re halfway to the door when I drop it. “I quit.”
Dad stops cold. “What? ”
“I quit my job” I repeat, louder. Like maybe volume will make it more real.
Mom’s lips purse, that practiced blend of concern and condescension. “Honey. Is this about that thing again?” She doesn’t even bother to hide the judgment. “You’re a lawyer. Of course they’re going to work you hard.”
Ah, yes. That thing. Otherwise known as casual misogyny, systemic bullying, and being undermined daily by Leonard the Lizard. I made the mistake of confiding in her once. She responded by recommending I smile more.
Dad chimes in, all puffed-up masculinity. “This isn’t how we raised you, young lady.”
I actually bark out a laugh. “You barely raised me at all.”
I don’t mean to say it out loud. But it slips through my teeth like a secret finally sick of being kept.
The silence is thunderous.
But of course, I backpedal. Because in this house, anger is unseemly and honesty is rude. “It doesn’t matter,” I say, jaw tight. “It’s done. And I just wanted to let you know… I won’t be able to support you financially for a while.”
Mom goes pale, clutching her pearls, literally. “Well, I’m sure you have savings. We’re your parents, Leni. ”
And there it is.
Not “Are you okay?” Not “We’re proud of you for walking away.” Just how dare you stop paying for our lifestyle.
I straighten up, spine like steel and fire in my throat. “Wow. Okay. Let me be clear, your daughter has a full-blown breakdown, quits her job after months of being harassed and gaslit, and your first concern is whether I’ll keep bankrolling your bougie brunches and that six-figure club membership?”
Mom opens her mouth, but I cut her off.
“I will no longer be supporting you. In any way. Enjoy the mimosas.”
Then I turn and walk out, before I break. Before the guilt seeps back in. Before I start believing I’m the selfish one.
Because today, I picked me. And damn it, that has to be enough .