Chapter 2 Lainey
I am sitting in Delta’s Sky Club lounge at LaGuardia, nursing a vodka martini as I wait to board a flight to L.A. I have an audition tomorrow, so I really should be hydrating, but it’s only one drink. My cellphone rings. I expect it to be my agent, Casey, whom I just hung up with. But it’s my best friend, Hannah—which probably means she’s sitting in Atlanta traffic. I honestly don’t know how she stands all that time in her car. I’d go crazy.
I answer with my usual “hey,” waiting for a mundane wedding update. Ever since Hannah got engaged last fall, our conversations have become a bit one-dimensional. As her maid of honor, I understand that comes with the territory—and it really is an honor. I also recognize that over the years, my drama has dominated the airwaves. But I can’t lie; I’ll be happy when the whole thing is over and we can get back to our regularly scheduled programming.
“Hi. Did I catch you at a bad time?” she asks, her typical starter. Her voice is faint, like she just woke up from a nap.
“No. I’m at the airport. Waiting for my flight to L.A.,” I say.
“Oh, right. Your audition.”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
There is silence on the end of the line, and I wonder if we’ve lost our connection.
“Han? You there?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“I can barely hear you,” I say, pressing my phone against my ear. “Where are you?”
“I’m home.”
“Are you okay?”
“Not really, actually,” she says, her voice shaking.
“Oh, crap. Your mother again?”
Hannah’s narcissistic mother has been dormant for a couple of weeks—which means she’s overdue for one of her manipulative stunts. You’d think Mrs. Davis was the one getting married. She definitely thinks it’s her day.
“No,” Hannah says. “Unfortunately, it’s a bit worse than my mother.”
My stomach drops, remembering the voicemail she left me ten years ago, after Summer committed suicide. And then my mother’s call to tell me about the “tiny tumor” her doctor had found. Six months later, she was gone, too.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I say, bracing myself.
“Grady cheated on me,” she says through sobs.
My jaw drops. It’s the last thing I expected to hear. “When? Are you sure?”
“Today. And yes, I’m sure.”
“Shit, Hannah. With who?” I ask, praying that it’s not one of her “friends,” though I wouldn’t put it past a couple of them.
“Berlin Beverly,” she tells me.
The name sounds familiar—one of the cast of characters Hannah sometimes mentions—but I can’t place her.
“Should I know who that is?”
“She’s an influencer. Here in Atlanta. I’ve sent you some stuff from her ‘Like to Know It’ page.”
“Oh, shit. The blonde in the goofy Little House on the Prairie dresses?” I ask, as I pull her up on Instagram and confirm that I have the right suspect.
“Yeah. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Yuck. No,” I say, scanning her feed with disgust. “She’s fake as fuck. A plastic Barbie doll…although that’s an insult to Barbie.”
“She’s twenty-four,” Hannah says.
“And? So? Who the fuck cares how old she is?” I ask. “She’s a dumb whore.”
It’s not the way I usually talk. I never slut-shame anyone, and not only because of my own lifestyle choices.
“Do you think he’s in love with her?” Hannah asks.
“Oh, please, Hannah. He’s not in love with her.”
“What if he is?”
“Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“It matters to me,” she says.
I cast about for the right words, wishing Summer were still with us. She would know what to say. She always knew what to say.
“Are you sure about this? Maybe it’s just a rumor—”
“It’s not a rumor, Lainey. I saw them.”
“Okay. But what did you see, exactly?” I say, imagining a lingering hug in a parking lot. Something shady but explainable.
“I saw them in bed. Having sex,” she says, then starts to cry again.
My jaw drops for the second time. “Oh my God, Hannah! You should have started with that! What happened? You busted them? How did they react?”
“They didn’t. I just left.”
“But they know you saw them, right?”
“No.”
“Wow,” I say, wondering how she could have such superhuman restraint. I would have castrated him on the spot. In fact, all I want to do is change my flight from L.A. to Atlanta and go do it myself. With a pair of kids’ craft scissors.
“I know, Lainey. I know I’m pathetic,” she says, sobbing again. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“It’s okay, honey. It’ll be okay. I promise,” I say, feeling desperate for her. “Just take a deep breath.”
She keeps crying, saying she doesn’t know what to do.
“Okay,” I say, gathering my thoughts. “For starters, you need to tell him you know. That you saw him.”
“And then what?”
“And then you dump his ass.”
“Oh, my God, Lainey,” she says. “I can’t believe this. I have to start over. I’m thirty-two.”
“Thirty-two is young—”
“Not when it comes to having babies—”
“You’ll have a baby, Hannah. I know you will.”
“But I put everything into that relationship. It’s all I have.”
“It’s not all you have. You have me. And Tyson,” I say as adamantly as I can.
“My mother is going to lose her mind,” she says. “My life is seriously over, Lainey.”
My heart skips a beat, wondering how she could think such a thing, let alone say it aloud. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that,” I say, thinking of our pact. A promise to come together if any of us ever hits rock bottom. I’m pretty sure this qualifies.
“Have you told Tyson?” I ask.
“No. I can’t bother him with this. He has a big trial next week—”
“Oh, please, Hannah. This is way more important. And anyway—you promised. We all promised—” I say, suddenly knowing what I have to do. “I’m changing my flight and coming to Atlanta. Tonight.”
“But your audition.”
“I don’t care. It’s a stupid, minor role,” I lie.
“You still need to go—”
“Hannah. Stop it right now,” I say as firmly as I can. “I’m coming down there. And that’s final.”
“Okay,” she whimpers. “Thank you, Lainey.”
The second we hang up, I head straight to the ticket counter, profiling the three agents, wondering who would be most helpful to my cause. There is an older lady who looks like she bakes homemade cookies for her grandchildren; a girl about my age who is more likely to have seen my show (always useful in customer service matters); and a forty-something man I could flirt with.
I wind up with the older woman. According to the pin on her shirt pocket, her name is Lydia, and I use it twice as I tell her my predicament and how worried I am about my friend.
“That poor girl,” Lydia says, going on a mini-tirade against men as she click-clacks on her computer, searching for flights to Atlanta. When she finally looks back up at me, she says, “Okay. So the good news is—I got you on the next flight to Atlanta—which you can just make.”
“And the bad news?”
“Your bag definitely won’t make it.”
“That’s okay,” I say, handing her my credit card.
She runs it, explaining that my bag will be rerouted and then delivered to me. She jots down a number I can call if I have any problems, then hands it to me along with my new boarding pass.
“Thank you again,” I say. “You’re an angel.”
“You’re so welcome, dear,” she says. “And best of luck to your friend. She’s very lucky to have you.”
a few minutes later, I’ve boarded my flight and am settling into my middle seat in the back of the plane. I text Hannah that I’m on my way, then call Tyson, knowing he won’t pick up. Tyson hates talking on the phone. Most of our communication consists of exchanging funny memes or TikToks, with an occasional link to a human-interest story. Conjoined twins separated. A dog reunited with his owner after a hurricane. A toddler calling 911 to save his mother.
Sure enough, Tyson shunts me to voicemail. It’s my pet peeve—the least he could do is let it ring through and pretend to have missed the call. I call him right back and he shunts me a second time.
Pick up, pls! I type. It’s important.
Moving ellipses appear, followed by the words Can’t talk now. What’s up?
I type back: It’s about Hannah.
My phone immediately rings.
“Is she okay?” he asks, sounding panicked.
“Yes. She’s fine,” I say, then lower my voice. “But Grady cheated on her. She caught him in bed with another woman.”
I know that my seatmates have no choice but to eavesdrop, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch the lady in the window seat do a double take.
“Dang,” Tyson says under his breath. “I knew that guy was trouble.”
“Yeah. You did,” I say.
“When did this happen?”
“Today. I’m actually on a flight to Atlanta as we speak—”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really,” I say. “Why do you sound so shocked? We made a pact.”
“Fuck,” Tyson says. “That’s where we are?”
“Yes. This is rock bottom for Hannah. Grady’s her whole world.”
“She has us.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s why I’m going.”
As the plane takes off, I lean my head back, close my eyes, and remind myself that I’m right about marriage and monogamy. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not a man-hater. In fact, I love men. I love the art of flirtation, the cat and mouse games, and the thrill of being pursued. I love those early days, weeks, and sometimes even months of a romantic entanglement. It’s the relationship and commitment and trust part that I can’t get on board with.
Hannah’s heartbreak underscores what I already knew. You can love being with a man, but you can’t count on one. If you try, you will get burned.
I learned that lesson at the age of twelve when my mother sat me down and told me the truth about my father. For years, I believed that he was in the CIA, living overseas and handling top-secret assignments for the U.S. government. His job was the reason he didn’t live with us and why we only saw him a few times a year. It was also the reason I wasn’t allowed to show pictures of him to my friends. Every few months, he would visit, bearing gifts and promises that he would retire one day and the three of us would be together full-time.
It had all been a lie, my mother confessed that day. My father actually worked at the JCPenney corporate office in Plano fucking Texas. Not only that, but he had another family who didn’t know we existed. A wife and two other daughters. Ashley and Olivia.
“How old are they?” I asked, reeling, expecting her to say that they were babies. That my father had cheated on her, then left her for the other woman.
Instead, she told me they were ten and thirteen.
“Thirteen!” I said, doing the obvious math. “So he was married when you met him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know he was married?” I asked, replaying their airport Starbucks meet-cute story.
She looked down and nodded.
“Then why did you like him?” I asked, aghast.
“It was love at first sight,” she said. “And sometimes the heart wants what the heart wants.”
My stomach turned at her flimsy explanation. I could only imagine the consequences of me doing something wrong, like shoplifting, then saying, Sorry, Mom. But sometimes the heart wants what the heart wants.
“Do you still love him?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “We’re very much in love.”
“Then why isn’t he with you? Why doesn’t he get a divorce and live with us?”
My mother sighed and said, “It’s complicated, Lainey-bug. Sometimes I get angry, but I have to accept the responsibility for my decisions, too.”
I stared at her, processing that I was part of that responsibility. Having me. Raising me by herself. Hell, I was a product of their wrongdoing. I told her I needed to be alone, then went to my room.
That night, as I lay in bed, I connected all the dots. The real reason that I didn’t have my dad’s phone number or address and that he’d never met any of my friends or gone to any of my school plays or dance recitals. I then realized that he was doing those regular, fatherly things with Ashley and Olivia, and I felt my first wave of jealousy. It was so ironic. I’d always longed for a sister. Now I had two, and I was miserable.
Over the weeks, months, and years that followed, my resentment and anger grew. Whenever my father came to visit, I refused to see him, spending the night with a friend.
From that point on, when anyone asked about my father, I simply said he was “out of the picture.” It was what I told Hannah, Tyson, and Summer on the night we met, and they all had the good sense not to ask any follow-up questions.
For the entirety of our first year, he was never mentioned again. Then one night early in our second year, Hannah came to talk to Summer and me, distraught over something her mother had done or said to her. I don’t remember the specifics, only that Summer and I were both appalled.
“Y’all are so lucky to have such nice mothers,” Hannah said. “I can’t imagine that—”
Summer gave her a sympathetic nod, then said, “You have to remember, though, Han, no family is perfect.”
“Yours is,” I said, thinking of all the care packages her mother sent and how supportive both her parents were about her running, flying in from Chicago for most of her races. She was very close to her brother, too, a senior at Princeton who was also a star runner. In fact, she seemed to worship him.
“I love my family,” Summer said. “But my parents constantly compare me to my brother. It’s like nothing I do is ever good enough.”
I stared at her in disbelief. How could anyone outshine Summer? She was a star. She was the sun. It was like hearing that Gisele Bündchen had a prettier sister. Frankly, it also explained a lot about Summer’s perfectionism and the pressure she put on herself.
“Nothing is ever really what it seems,” Summer added, a worried look on her face.
In that moment, I blurted out the truth about my father.
Hannah looked stunned and clearly had no idea what to say. But Summer immediately hugged me, then asked a series of calm questions, most of them about my sisters and what I knew about them. I confessed that I occasionally stalked their Facebook pages. Although their profiles were set to private, I knew that Ashley attended Texas Christian University and that Olivia was still in high school, playing tennis on the junior circuit. “I think she’s at one of those sports academies,” I added.
“Do you think you’ll ever reach out to them?” Summer asked.
“I doubt it. Let sleeping dogs lie, right?”
“I don’t know about that,” Summer said. “I can understand that point of view, but there’s a huge potential upside.”
“And what would that be?” I asked.
“Having a relationship with your sisters,” Summer said.
“I doubt that would happen. It’s not like I’d be happy news.”
“Maybe not at first, but they can’t be upset with you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” I said.
Summer frowned, clearly deep in thought, then said, “Maybe you should talk to Tyson about this. He always gives great advice.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say.
A few nights later, I brought him into the circle of trust. He was predictably furious at my father. Tyson had no patience for liars or cheaters. In his own life, he played by all the rules, once remarking that as a Black man, he had “zero room for error” and needed to be “beyond reproach.” In all situations. It didn’t come across as a complaint—more of an observation or fact, something he said his parents had ingrained in him from a very young age. Beyond the universal rules that everyone had to follow, there was a matrix of additional guidelines for him. In stores, for example, he was taught to make direct eye contact with the clerks; to never put his hands in his pockets; and to always get a receipt, no matter how small the purchase.
“You can’t let your father keep getting away with this, Lainey,” he said. “You need to out that son of a bitch.”
“It’s not my secret to tell.”
It was a line I’d heard before, and I felt like it applied.
“The hell it’s not,” Tyson said. “You’re his daughter. They’re your sisters. The secret is very much about you—and very much yours to tell.”
“I agree.” Summer nodded, then turned back to me with the most earnest look. “Lainey, you have a right to know your sisters.”
“Maybe one day,” I said. “But for now, I have you guys. My friends are my family.”
It was the truth. It was especially true since I’d lost my mother back in 2020. After she died, I had discovered a trove of letters from my father, along with a journal detailing their relationship. I questioned whether I should read them—it felt like such an invasion of privacy. But ultimately, I decided that if my mother hadn’t wanted me to see them, she would have disposed of them.
So I opened a bottle of wine, sat down, and read every word of every page. I was shocked by how much my father had strung her along with false promises. He swore up and down that she was the love of his life, all while making excuses and moving the goalpost. Her diary confirmed that she believed him—that is, until her final entry.
It was written eight days before she died. In it, she pondered whether a secretive love could ever be true love.
“I don’t know the answer,” she wrote. “But if he truly loved me, wouldn’t now be the time to show me? Maybe he’s thinking that it makes no sense to ruin her life when mine is nearly over. I am trying to understand that. I’m trying not to let bitterness overtake my heart. I’m trying to focus all my thoughts and energy on Lainey. She is the love of my life.”
Reading it made me nauseous. It made me hate my father even more than I already did. It was proof of everything I’d been telling myself about love.
And here I was, about to touch down in Atlanta to help my best friend, being reminded of this lesson all over again. Maybe love wasn’t a complete farce, but in the end, it was never worth the pain.