2. Jillian
— ? —
Jillian
Mother’s hosting a houseguest. Come meet her? I’ll make it worth your while.
The winky face emoji that followed was so unlike him that I actually checked the contact name twice.
But it was definitely Trevor’s number, and the promise of witnessing him navigate his mother’s social obligations was too entertaining to pass up.
Margot Anderson treated every interaction like a performance, and watching Trevor try to match her energy always made for good theater.
I texted back a simple thumbs up and started getting dressed, choosing a silk blouse the color of champagne and my favorite high-waisted trousers. Nothing too formal, but polished enough that Margot wouldn’t spend the entire visit cataloging my inadequacies with her eyes.
The drive to the Anderson estate took forty minutes from our place, winding through increasingly manicured neighborhoods until the houses stopped being houses and started being statements.
The Anderson property sat at the end of a private drive lined with oak trees that had probably been planted before the Civil War, their branches forming a canopy that filtered the morning light into a glow that felt almost holy.
I’d been here dozens of times, but the approach still felt like entering another world. A world where people had staff and sitting rooms and used summer as a verb.
Trevor met me at the door, which was unusual.
Normally I’d ring the bell and wait for Helena, the housekeeper, to usher me through the marble foyer with the quiet efficiency of a woman who’d been doing this for thirty years.
But there was Trevor, already dressed in slacks and a button-down, looking more put-together than I’d seen him in months.
“You look nice,” I said, reaching up to straighten his collar. “Did Margot threaten you?”
“She implied disappointment, which is worse.” He kissed me quickly, a distracted brush of lips. “Thanks for coming. I know Monday mornings aren’t exactly…”
“Free entertainment. I wouldn’t miss it.”
He laughed, but there was a tightness around his eyes. “Right. Entertainment. Come on, she’s in the sitting room.”
She. Not they. Not Mother and her guest. Just she.
The sitting room was one of Margot’s favorites, a sun-drenched space decorated in creams and golds that made everyone who entered look slightly washed out.
I’d always suspected that was intentional.
Margot herself was holding court from her usual wingback chair, dressed in ivory cashmere that somehow matched both her décor and her disposition.
But my attention caught on the woman sitting across from her.
Tall. Blonde. The kind of blonde that came from expensive salons and careful maintenance, falling in waves past her shoulders like she’d walked out of a shampoo commercial.
She was laughing at a story I hadn’t heard, her head thrown back, and Trevor was laughing too, standing near the window with a glass of amber liquid that definitely wasn’t coffee.
They looked like a photograph. The kind that came in frames, pre-installed, showing beautiful people in beautiful rooms doing beautiful things.
I felt, suddenly and inexplicably, like I’d interrupted.
“Jillian!” Margot rose, which she almost never did for me. “Wonderful, you’re here. Come, come. Trevor, don’t just stand there.”
Trevor crossed to me, took my hand, guided me forward like I was a nervous horse. “Chloe, this is Jillian. Jill, Chloe Williams.”
Chloe Williams stood. She was taller than I’d initially registered, at least five-ten, with the kind of posture that came from years of someone telling you to sit up straight, darling. Her dress was simple and probably cost more than my car payment. Her smile was practiced and perfect.
“Jillian.” She extended her hand, and her grip lingered a beat too long. “Trevor’s told me so much about you.”
“Has he?” I kept my voice pleasant, but I was already running through every conversation Trevor and I had ever had. He’d never mentioned a Chloe. Not once. “I’m afraid he’s been keeping you a secret.”
A flash of emotion crossed Chloe’s eyes, satisfaction, maybe, or vindication, before her smile widened. “Oh, that sounds like Trevor. Never tells anyone anything important.”
“We grew up together,” Trevor added, finally releasing my hand to gesture vaguely between them. “Our families go way back. Chloe’s been in London for a few years, but she’s back for… how long is it now?”
“Open-ended,” Chloe said. “I’ve missed home terribly.”
“How lovely,” I said, because someone had to speak.
Margot gestured toward the settee. “Sit, both of you. I’ll have Helena bring more coffee. Chloe was just telling us about her work with the Preservation Society. Fascinating stuff.”
The next hour was an exercise in patience.
We moved to the dining room for brunch, because apparently this was a brunch situation now, and I sat across from Chloe while she systematically dismantled my presence in the room.
It was elegant, really. Almost admirable.
She’d touch Trevor’s arm while telling a story.
She’d reference people and places and remember whens that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with him.
She’d laugh at things that weren’t jokes and redirect every topic back to their shared history.
“Oh, Trevor, remember that summer at the Hamptons house? When you tried to teach me to sail and we ended up stranded for three hours?”
“Your father was furious,” Trevor said, grinning. “I thought he was going to have me arrested.”
“He adored you. Everyone adored you.” Chloe’s eyes slid to me, including me in the warmth without actually including me at all. “Trevor was always the charming one. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“I’ve noticed a few things,” I said.
“The Williams and Anderson families have been intertwined for generations,” Margot offered, as if I’d asked for a history lesson. “Chloe’s grandmother and my mother were practically sisters. And of course, there was always the understanding that the next generation would…”
She trailed off delicately, but the silence filled itself in.
I looked at Trevor. He was studying his plate with sudden intensity.
“That was all so long ago,” Chloe said smoothly. “Ancient history. Trevor and I were practically children when everyone started planning our lives for us. You know how these families are.” A pause. “Well. Perhaps you don’t. But it was very old-fashioned. Very arranged.”
“Not arranged,” Trevor cut in. “It was never formal.”
“No, nothing was ever formal,” Chloe agreed, and a brittle edge crept into her voice. “It was just… assumed. Until it wasn’t.”
“When did it stop being assumed?” I asked, because apparently I enjoyed torturing myself.
Margot’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. Chloe’s smile didn’t waver.
“Right before I left for London, actually. About four years ago? Four and a half?” She looked at Trevor for confirmation, but he was still focused on his eggs. “Everyone was very surprised when you married someone new to all this, Trevor. Even in London, people talked.”
Someone new to all this.
The words landed exactly where she’d intended them to.
“Jillian’s been wonderful,” Margot said, which was the most backhanded compliment I’d received all morning. “She’s adapted beautifully.”
“I’m sure she has.” Chloe’s hand found Trevor’s forearm again, squeezed briefly. “You always did know how to make people feel comfortable.”
The rest of brunch blurred together. More stories I wasn’t part of. More casual touches I was meant to notice. More history being performed for an audience of one, and I was definitely the audience, not the performer.
Trevor seemed oblivious, which was somehow worse.
He laughed when Chloe laughed, reminisced when Chloe reminisced, and not once did he reach across the table to include me.
Not once did he translate the shorthand of their shared childhood into a language I could understand.
I sat there, smiling, nodding, being wonderful and adaptive, and felt myself becoming more invisible by the minute.
By the time we finally said our goodbyes, my face hurt from holding its pleasant expression.
Trevor walked me to my car, his hand warm on the small of my back. The afternoon had turned golden, early-autumn light filtering through those ancient oaks, and for a moment we just stood there in the driveway, not speaking.
“I’m sorry about the ambush,” he said finally. “I should have given you more warning.”
“You didn’t know she was coming?”
“Mother mentioned it last week, but I didn’t think…” He ran a hand through his hair, messing up its careful styling. “It’s complicated. Family stuff. You know how she is.”
“I know how Margot is,” I agreed. “I’m still learning how Chloe is.”
He laughed, but it sounded tired. “She’s harmless, Jill. Just family staying for a while. Ancient history.”
Ancient history that touched his arm six times during brunch. Ancient history that everyone in their social circle had assumed he’d marry. Ancient history that looked at me like I was a temporary obstacle.
But Trevor’s eyes were sincere, and his hand was still warm on my back, and when he leaned down to press a kiss to my forehead, I let myself believe him.
“I’ll be home late,” he said. “Mother wants me to help Chloe get settled. Make sure she has everything she needs.”
“Of course.”
I got in the car. Started the engine. Pulled away slowly, because the Anderson driveway was gravel and I’d learned the hard way what speeding did to my wheel wells.
In my rearview mirror, I saw Trevor standing where I’d left him, watching me go. That part made sense.
What didn’t make sense was Chloe.
She’d followed us outside, which I hadn’t noticed. She was standing on the front steps now, maybe twenty feet behind Trevor, and she wasn’t looking at the car or at me. She was looking at him. Looking at him watching me leave.
Her expression wasn’t friendly. Wasn’t wistful or nostalgic or any of the things you might expect from ancient history and family staying for a while.
It was calculating.
Measuring.
Like she was already planning her next move in a game I hadn’t realized we were playing.
I drove faster than I should have down that oak-lined drive, a song drifting from my speakers that felt suddenly prophetic, and I tried to convince myself I’d imagined it.
Tried to convince myself that Trevor knew what he was doing.
That I was overreacting. That the woman in my rearview mirror was exactly what he’d said she was.
Just family.
Just history.
Just a ghost from his past, staying for a while.
But the calculating look in her eyes stayed with me all the way home.