Chapter 2
Vivian
A month after Lisa’s big win, my house felt less like a home and more like a fertility boot camp.
Lisa ran it like a drill sergeant, complete with alarms, reminders, and motivational posters taped to every flat surface.
“You can do hard things!” read the one above the bathroom mirror.
“Every journey starts with a single egg,” said the Post-it next to my bedside lamp.
If I was ever five minutes late with a supplement or meditation, Lisa noticed. If Ryan left the table before finishing his daily “sperm boost smoothie,” she guilted him back with a full body sigh. But the weirdest part wasn’t her obsession—it was how much Ryan seemed to enjoy it.
He started volunteering to drive Lisa to the health food store, signed up for every group yoga class she found, and even let her put him through “guided visualization” at night.
One evening, I caught them sitting cross-legged in the living room, eyes closed, holding hands and chanting.
When I asked what the hell was going on, Lisa beamed and said, “Bonding. It’s good for the baby. ”
I rolled my eyes, but Ryan winked at me like it was a big joke only we understood. I didn’t laugh, but I told myself I was glad they were getting along.
Lisa’s new fixation was “emotional intimacy.” She said our marriage was too businesslike, too focused on the outcome. We needed to “rediscover each other,” whatever that meant.
She scheduled “connection nights.” No screens, no phones, just candlelight and “open dialogue.” The first night was awkward; Ryan and I sat on the patio, sipping tea and making stilted small talk while Lisa floated in and out refilling our cups and staring at us with expectant eyes.
“What are you most grateful for about Ryan?” she asked, not even pretending to leave us alone.
I thought about it. “He’s loyal,” I said. “He never gives up on things. Even when it’s hard.”
Lisa nodded, like a therapist in training. “And you, Ryan?”
He looked at me, really looked, and for a second I remembered the boy I’d married, not the ghost I’d been living with. “I’m grateful she always fights for us. Even when I don’t deserve it.”
That one actually stung a little, but Lisa looked delighted. “See? That’s what real partnership is.”
After that, she left us to “process.” I expected Ryan to go back to his phone or disappear into work, but instead he pulled my feet into his lap and massaged them like he used to, before everything went to hell.
“Maybe she’s onto something,” he said, voice low.
“Maybe,” I agreed, and for the first time in ages, I almost believed we could fix things.
Then came the late nights. At first, it was just once or twice. “Working late, be home after ten,” read Ryan’s texts. Lisa covered for him, always. “He’s under so much pressure, Vivian. You shouldn’t make it worse by being suspicious.”
But I was suspicious. Not that he was cheating—who had the energy?—but that he was hiding from me. Hiding from the constant tests and schedules and pressure to perform. I tried not to blame him.
One Friday, he didn’t come home at all.
I waited up, texting and calling, but got nothing. By morning, I was frantic.
Lisa took my phone and set it face-down on the table. “He needs space, Vivian. Give him a break.”
I snapped. “You’re not his mother, Lisa. And you’re not mine, either.”
She flinched, then did something I hadn’t seen in months: she looked at me, really looked, and her eyes were almost… scared?
“I just want to help,” she said, voice small.
I hated myself for yelling. “I know,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”
She hugged me tight, the way she did when we were kids and afraid of thunderstorms.
“He’ll be home soon,” she said. “You’ll see.”
And just like that, I let her soothe me, because it was easier than fighting.
Monday morning, Ryan was at the table, shirt untucked, hair wet from the shower. He smiled like nothing had happened.
“I tried calling,” I said.
He shrugged. “Fell asleep at the office. Sorry, babe.”
Lisa chimed in, “I told Vivian you’d just lost track of time.”
Ryan smiled at her, not at me. “Thanks, Lis.”
She beamed.
I watched their little moment, my stomach twisting.
A few weeks later, I had another doctor’s appointment—just a check-in, nothing dramatic. But something about the waiting room, the pastel walls and battered magazines, sent me straight back to every failed test, every call with bad news.
I cried in the car afterward, forehead pressed to the steering wheel. It was like my body was punishing me for being so gullible. For believing, even for a minute, that hope could survive in a house this full of lies.
When I finally got home, Lisa was waiting with a green juice and a pep talk about “fresh starts.” I nodded and drank it, too tired to argue.
That night, I dreamed of babies: tiny hands grasping at nothing, cribs lined with thorns. When I woke up, Ryan’s side of the bed was cold.
The next day, I went to the grocery store and spotted a tabloid in the checkout line.
There, on the front page, was Alejandro Bellandi—smiling his perfect smile, arm draped around some actress with legs for days.
The headline screamed something about “America’s Hottest Judge.
” I bought it, stuffed it into my bag, and read the whole article in the parking lot.
He looked so… normal. So stable. Not at all like the men I’d spent my life chasing.
I wondered if he’d remember me, or if I was just another forgettable face in a sea of desperate women.
That Friday, Lisa announced she was making “date night” extra special.
She decorated the dining room with flowers, candles, and a playlist of our wedding songs. She cooked Ryan’s favorite meal, set out real plates, and told me to wear something “fun and flirty.” I laughed, but I did it, because why not? Maybe things could be good again, even if only for a night.
Ryan seemed genuinely surprised when he saw the table. “Wow, Lis. You really went all out.”
Lisa blushed, then grabbed her purse. “I’m running to the store for dessert. Don’t wait up!”
She left, and Ryan and I actually had a normal dinner. We joked about old friends, gossiped about neighbors, even flirted a little. When he reached for my hand, I didn’t pull away.
After dinner, we danced in the living room, swaying to the static-filled chorus of our first dance song. For a minute, I was back in my wedding dress, dizzy with possibility.
“I missed you,” Ryan whispered.
I almost said it back, but something stopped me. Instead, I kissed him, hard, and dragged him to the bedroom.
We made love like we meant it. Or maybe like we wanted to mean it.
Afterward, Ryan fell asleep on my chest, breathing slow and even.
I closed my eyes, memorizing the way he felt, the way it used to be.
At 3 a.m., I woke up alone. Ryan was gone.
I crept down the hallway, heart hammering. Lisa’s door was open. I heard voices—soft, urgent.
Ryan: “She’ll never know.”
Lisa: “You said that before.”
Ryan: “I mean it this time. I just—she needs me to be the good guy. I don’t know how to do this without hurting her.”
Lisa: “You’re not the only one who cares about her.”
Ryan: “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
A pause, then a long, wet sound I’d know anywhere. Kissing.
I stumbled back to my room, pulse pounding in my ears.
This was the proof. Not a maybe, not a what-if, but the truth.
I buried my face in the pillow and screamed, muffling it until I tasted blood.
The next morning, Lisa was in the kitchen, making pancakes. She looked at me, then looked away, cheeks flaming.
I forced myself to sit at the table. “Rough night?” I asked, voice ice-cold.
She flinched, spatula clattering to the stove. “Yeah, I guess.”
Ryan came in a few minutes later, hair wet, looking hungover.
He kissed my cheek like nothing had changed.
I wanted to slap him. Or her. Or both. Instead, I just smiled, because that’s what good wives do.
The days blurred. Ryan worked late; Lisa “supported” me with smoothies and mantras. I walked through life like a shell, just waiting for the next blow.
But one morning, something shifted.
Lisa was in the bathroom, door locked. I heard her retching. Then the flush. Then silence.
She emerged pale and shaking.
She looked at me, eyes wide. “Vivian, I think I have food poisoning.”
But I knew that look.
She was late. And it wasn’t the pancakes.
I watched her pour herself a glass of water, hands trembling.
She excused herself and vanished into her room for hours.
I texted Ryan. No reply.
When she finally came out, her face was set, lips tight with determination.
She walked straight past me, grabbing her keys and bag.
I asked, “Where are you going?”
She didn’t answer.
That night, I caught her in the backyard, phone pressed to her ear.
“Of course I’m sure,” she whispered. “It’s going to work. I know it.”
Silence.
Then, “I love you, too.”
I watched her from the window, waiting for her to look back.
She didn’t.
I went to bed early.
Before sunrise, I heard her bathroom door slam.
Then the sound of a sob, so raw and happy it made my skin crawl.
I listened as she cried, over and over, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
The next morning, she floated through the house like she was walking on clouds.
She made me breakfast, kissed the top of my head, and said, “Today’s going to be beautiful.”
I tried to say something, anything, but the words just wouldn’t come.
I watched her, really watched, and saw the truth: she wasn’t just happy.
She was already in love.
Holy. Freaking. Heck.
And this time, I was pretty sure it wasn’t me she loved.