When Perfect Falls Apart (The Bexley Hills #1)

Chapter 1

The bathroom light was brutal at three in the morning. I stood there in my silk pajamas, staring at a woman I barely recognized anymore. The mirror didn't lie, even when I desperately wanted it to. Fifty two years old, and every single one of them was carved into my face.

God, I looked tired. Not just sleepy tired, but soul-deep exhausted. The kind that sleep couldn't fix because it wasn't really about sleep. These crow's feet weren't laugh lines. They were worry lines, disappointment lines, lines from squinting at a life that had somehow gone out of focus.

I touched the deep crease between my eyebrows. Permanent now. My face had gotten stuck in worry mode, and I couldn't remember how to smooth it out.

The night cream stared back at me from the counter. Two hundred dollars for this tiny jar of lies. The saleswoman at Nordstrom had promised it would take ten years off my face.

What a joke.

I still looked exactly like what I was, a woman whose husband couldn't be bothered to really see her anymore.

Behind me, Brett slept like a man without a care in the world.

His breathing was deep and even, his face completely relaxed.

I envied that peace. I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept through the night without jerking awake at some ungodly hour, my mind spinning with thoughts I couldn't turn off.

The house was silent. Even our fourteen thousand square foot mansion felt suffocating when insomnia hit. All those rooms, all that space, and nowhere to hide from my own restless mind.

I slipped back into bed, moving quietly so I wouldn't disturb Brett. He had that big meeting in the morning. European expansion or some shit. Another deal that would take him further away from this house, from this family, from me.

Three more hours until his alarm went off, and lying there, counting all the ways my life had shrunk without me noticing.

By six-thirty, I was already dressed and downstairs, the coffee maker gurgling to life.

Brett stumbled into the kitchen in his charcoal Armani suit, his hair sticking up on one side.

For just a second, he looked like the guy I'd fallen in love with twenty four years ago.

Then he grabbed his phone, and the spell broke.

"Coffee's ready," I said, filling his travel mug. Dark roast, splash of cream, two sugars. Same way he'd liked it since college.

"Thanks." He scrolled through his emails while I stirred in the cream. His face was already tense with whatever crisis needed his attention.

"Devin has a game tonight," I said, handing him the mug. "Seven o'clock. Big one against Everleigh Prep."

"Mm..hmm." He didn't look up from his screen. "Baseball. Right."

"He's been working on his swing all week. Coach thinks some scouts might show up." I waited for him to react, to show some sign that he gave a damn about his son's dreams.

He pocketed his phone and reached for his briefcase. "That's great, hon. Really great."

His response sounded like he was reading from a script. Supportive Husband and Father, Act One, Scene One.

"So you'll be there?" I asked even though we both knew the answer.

"I'll try. You know how these investor meetings go. Could run really late." He was already moving toward the garage, already halfway out the door in his mind.

"Right. Of course." I forced a smile. "The meeting's more important."

"It's not more important," he said, but his hand was already on the door handle. "It's just complicated timing."

"It's always complicated timing, Brett."

He stopped, turned back to me with a patient expression he wore when he thought I was being unreasonable. "Lauren, you know how crucial this European deal is. We're talking about expanding into six new markets."

"And you know how crucial tonight is for your son. But okay."

"Don't be like that." He sighed like I was a problem he needed to solve. "I'll text you about dinner."

He returns to kiss my cheek in that routine way married people do. Like checking off a box on a list. Then he was gone, the garage door rumbling open and closed.

My phone chimed against the counter. Robin's name lit up the screen.

Robin:

SOS coffee date tomorrow? Amy's losing her shit about Richard again and I can't deal with her meltdowns alone.

I typed back quickly.

God yes. I need alcohol but will settle for caffeine.

Robin:

10 AM at Marie’s Roast?

Our favorite coffee shop with the comfy chairs where we can properly trash our husbands.

I texted back.

Perfect. I'll bring tissues and judgment.

Robin:

You're the best. Also wine. I'm bringing wine in a coffee cup.

Before I could respond, another text popped up. Kimberly this time, and my heart gave its usual little flutter when I saw her name.

Kim:

Morning beautiful mother of mine. Random check-in: how are you really doing?

I stared at the screen. My twenty one year old daughter was checking on me from her dorm room, probably cramming for some impossible organic chemistry exam, and she was worried about me.

The irony was almost funny.

I'm good, sweetheart. Just the usual suburban wife chaos. How's school?

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

Kim:

That's not what I asked. I'm calling you tonight after Devin's game. And don't try to deflect with questions about my classes.

I text back.

Honey, you don't need to worry about your old mom. Focus on your studies.

Kim:

Too late. Already worried. Also, you're not old, you're just stuck. There's a difference.

Sometimes Kimberly saw me clearer than I saw myself.

Love you, baby girl.

Kim:

Love you too. We're talking tonight. For real.

I set the phone down and stared out the kitchen window at our backyard. Even the landscaping looked like it had been ordered from a catalog. Nothing out of place, nothing wild or unexpected. Just like my life.

The clock on the microwave read 8:15. I had just enough time to transform myself into the version of Lauren that other people expected to see.

Hair, makeup, the right outfit.

The whole performance.

I walked into the Westbrook Country Club meeting room where the usual suspects were already gathered around the oval table, coffee cups and pastries arranged just so. Women who'd perfected the art of looking busy while accomplishing nothing meaningful.

"Lauren, darling, you look fabulous," Margaret Whitfield said, though she was already scanning the room for someone more important to talk to.

Margaret's husband owned half the commercial real estate in Everleigh and Bexley Hills, which meant she thought she owned the other half. "That jacket is stunning on you."

"Thanks, Margaret." I took my usual seat between Renee Henley and Diane Murray.

Renee gave me her smile. Diane was staring into her coffee cup like it might reveal the secrets of the universe.

"How's Brett?" Renee asked, because that's what we did here. We asked about husbands like they were the most interesting thing about us.

"Busy as always. Big meeting about European expansion." I heard myself reciting the same script I always did. Successful Husband, Important Work, Everything's Wonderful.

"Oh, how exciting," Renee said with the enthusiasm of someone discussing root canal surgery. "Richard's been traveling so much lately. I barely see him."

Diane finally looked up from her coffee. "At least you know where Richard is when he travels."

Her comment hung there like a toxic cloud. We all knew about Diane's husband and his twenty five year old assistant. We just pretended we didn't because that's what polite society did. We looked the other way and changed the subject and let each other slowly die inside.

"Well," Margaret said brightly, clearly uncomfortable with any hint of real emotion, "shall we dive into the final details for the literacy fundraiser?"

For the next hour and fifteen minutes, we debated napkin colors with the intensity of a Supreme Court hearing.

Ivory versus cream. Cotton versus linen.

Round tables versus rectangular. It was like being trapped in hell, if hell was decorated by someone with excellent taste and no sense of proportion.

"I really feel the ivory complements the floral arrangements better," Margaret said, holding up two fabric samples that looked identical to my untrained eye. "More sophisticated, don't you think?"

"But cream is more classic," Renee argued, leaning forward like she was making a point about nuclear disarmament. "More timeless."

I watched these women I'd been sitting with for six years debate napkins like the fate of Western civilization was at stake. We were supposed to be raising money for kids who didn't have books to read, and we'd spent over an hour on table linens.

"Lauren, you've been quiet," Margaret said, turning to me with that bright smile that never reached her eyes. "What's your opinion? You have such wonderful taste."

Translation: You haven't contributed anything meaningful to this ridiculous conversation, and we need to pretend your opinion matters so you'll keep showing up and writing checks.

"Both are lovely," I said, because that's what was expected. "I'm sure whatever we choose will be beautiful."

Margaret beamed like I'd just solved world hunger. "See? I knew Lauren would have the right perspective."

I looked around the table at these women whose lives paralleled mine in all the worst ways. Diane, pretending her husband wasn't cheating. Susan, so loaded on Xanax she could barely keep her eyes focused. Claire, who'd had so much plastic surgery she looked permanently surprised.

We were all slowly suffocating in our ideal lives, and nobody was brave enough to say it out loud.

The meeting finally ended at eleven-forty-five. I escaped to my car and sat in the parking lot for a few minutes, letting myself breathe real air instead of the recycled misery we'd been sharing for the past two hours.

Devin's baseball game was exactly what my soul needed. Real stakes, real emotion, real people caring about something that actually mattered. I climbed the bleachers and found Carol Reynolds waving me over.