Chapter Twelve
“You're... why?”
Brad's eyes follow me through the mirror as I put on my makeup.
“I don't know.” I shrug, focusing on my mascara. “I guess I realized Sophie should have friends and, you know... I miss the girls.”
“Well, Sophie can make friends the normal way,” he says slowly. “And you said the girls were dead to you.”
I shrug again. “Guess they came back to life.”
My phone buzzes on the counter. Keeping my expression neutral, I glance at the screen before turning it face down.
Brad goes quiet. I can feel him watching me through the mirror.
“Is everything alright?” he asks.
“Why do you ask?” I counter.
“You've been quiet lately.”
I let out a slow breath. Then turn around to face him instead of looking through the mirror.
“Just because she's no longer in our lives doesn't mean all is forgiven.”
His expression immediately softens.
“Babe-”
I flinch without even realizing it.
His jaw tightens as he closes his eyes in frustration.
My phone buzzes again. This time I physically tense. My hand grips the edge of the counter while I stare down at it.
“What is going on?” Brad asks.
Before I can even pretend to stop him, he reaches over and grabs my phone.
“Brad-”
His eyes scan the screen as he reads the surprising number of texts for one day.
“What the fuck?” Brad explodes waving my phone at my face.
I fight the urge to take it from his hands before he drops it and look away, continuing to gather my makeup.
“Now you see why I need my friends,” I say quietly.
“Who sent this?”
I let out a hollow laugh. “How many women have you fucked?”
The question is sarcastic. Mostly. But I still watch for his reaction through the mirror.
“Laila?” he asks through gritted teeth.
Well, at least he got it on the first try.
I don't answer as he scrolls upward. The messages get worse the farther he goes.
I still love him.
He misses me.
You can't stop him forever.
And my personal favorite.
Can you still taste me on him?
Honestly? Claire may have gone a little overboard.
“Jesus Christ,” Brad mutters, but keeps scrolling. His expression shifting from anger to confusion to outright disbelief.
“Wyn.”
I don't answer, silently hating that nickname.
“Wyn, you know this isn't real.”
I zip up my makeup bag.
“She's lying.” If his face gets any redder, he just might explode. “Babe, I've been here since we brought Sophie home. How could I even-”
“I know that here.” I tap my temple. Then I press my palm against my chest. “But here?”
The gesture says the rest.
Brad hasn't left my side in three weeks. The man practically follows me around the house like a guilty golden retriever.
Right now, though, I'm not projecting logic.
Is the whole palm-to-my-heart thing a tad dramatic? Yes.
But I'm desperate.
Because after my conversation with Claire yesterday, everything suddenly became very real.
The articles she sent me after leaving me alone with my plan-less plan told us about a whole bunch of shit I didn't even know I needed to worry about.
Turns out Texas has residency laws.
Yeah.
My half-formed plan to guilt Brad into moving us to Texas, then lock him out of the house while I filed for divorce and custody, went up in Texas flames.
Apparently, it takes six months before you can even file for divorce after moving there. Same goes for custody. Sophie would have to physically live in Texas for six months before a court could even hold a hearing.
Six months.
That means if I want my daughter raised near my family, if I want any chance of fighting this battle on equal footing, I need to get us there first.
Before lawyers and before Brad realizes I've already started planning a future that doesn't include him.
Which means I need a reason.
A believable one.
And Claire's solution was psychological warfare via burner phone.
The woman is somewhere in her fifties, I'm guessing. It didn't seem polite to ask her exact age. Yet somehow she's more terrifying than anyone I've ever met.
And I know some pretty catty women. Women I'm about to meet with.
Well. More accurately, one woman I'm about to "accidentally" run into.
Specifically, the weakest link in the group.
Denzella.
She's a twenty-something Puerto Rican woman married to who she once described as a regular guy from her village. Then said regular guy got discovered by a modeling scout and ended up on the pages of Vogue wearing little more than expensive underwear.
Next thing they knew, they'd packed up their lives and moved to Los Angeles.
Denzella is... Nice. Not fake nice. Not LA nice. Just nice in the way people who weren't raised here sometimes are.
Which makes her perfect for part B of the plan. Because if my friend group iced me out because Brad hit on one of them, I need to know.
And if they didn't? I need to know that too. At this point I'll take any truth I can get my hands on.
Because I need something.
Something that makes Brad get on his knees and beg me to tell him how to fix this marriage… again.
Because this time... I know exactly what I’ll ask for.
When I take my phone from Brad’s hand, his head snaps up.
“You can't seriously still be leaving.”
“Oh?” I ask sarcastically as I slip on my shoes. “What am I doing then?”
“We have to talk about this.” The desperation in his voice makes me feel triumphant.
“Not now,” I say, fighting a smile.
“I'll talk to Laila.”
“No.” The word explodes out of me.
Brad freezes.
I take a breath. Then force myself to calm down.
“No,” I repeat more softly. “Don't.”
His eyebrows pull together. “Why?”
“Because that's what she wants.”
I shake my head. “If you're telling the truth and you haven't seen her since Sophie was born, then this is exactly what she's after. Your attention.”
I offer him a sad smile. “If you don't give it to her, she'll disappear.”
Hopefully.
Because if Brad actually goes looking for her, this entire plan falls apart.
The second he checks on her, he'll find out she moved back home with her mother straight from the hospital.
“Okay,” he says reluctantly, raising a hand toward me.
I duck away before he can make contact.
“I'll let you know if I'm late. There's milk in the freezer and you know the rest.”
He nods. Then follows me anyway.
“I don't know how I feel about giving her frozen breast milk from a stranger.”
I roll my eyes, though thankfully he doesn't see.
"Well, we can't exactly ask Laila to donate now, can we?"
Predictably, he goes quiet. Watching me. The same way he's been watching me for weeks.
I ignore him as I climb into my car.
I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to pull this off. Avoiding him is easy enough when we’re taking shifts with our crying daughter, but the second she's down it's like he's determined to follow me around the house.
Maybe once he goes back to his normal schedule it'll get easier.
I arrive at Allenwood Bistro around ten.
Denzella's Pilates class ends at nine fifty-five, and she comes here for a smoothie afterward almost every time, at least she used to.
Clearly, she’s a creature of habit because I barely have to wait five minutes before she strolls through the doors wearing yoga pants, and a sports bra.
Taking a deep breath, I quickly put my phone to my ear and step into line behind her.
“Oh my God, Brad,” I say loudly. “You can change a diaper. She's your daughter too.”
Right on cue, Denzella turns around.
“Babe, I gotta go,” I say into the phone before pretend hanging up.
Then I widen my eyes dramatically. “Oh my God, Denny!”
“Bronwyn?”
I lean forward and kiss her cheek. “Wow. It's been forever.”
She still looks stunned. “Yeah. Hey.”
“What can I get you?” the barista asks.
“Uh... protein kale smoothie.” She glances at me awkwardly. “And you?”
“I'll have the same.”
Internally, I cringe. Why anyone willingly drinks kale remains one of life's great mysteries.
When the total comes up, I pull a twenty from my purse.
“I got it.”
Her eyebrows jump. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.”
Together we take our drinks outside and settle at one of the small patio tables.
For a moment the air feels awkward. Then Denzella sips from her cup and asks. “Wait. Did I hear right? You had a baby?”
Instinctively I pull up photos. Lots of photos. “That's Sophie.”
"Oh my God." She takes the phone. "She's adorable."
"I know," I say instantly.
The smile comes easily. The tears take a little more effort. I sniff, blinking rapidly until my vision blurs. Not enough to start dramatically sobbing. Just enough to make my eyes shine.
A few tears. That's all I need.
"I'm sorry."
Denzella's head snaps up at my unsolicited apology. "Why are you apologizing?"
I drop my gaze to my smoothie, tracing a finger through the condensation running down the side of the cup. "The woman who carried her..." My voice catches. Not entirely fake either. "Brad had an affair with her."
"Oh, honey."
The sympathy is immediate. She scoots closer and wraps an arm around my shoulders.
I let her. She can play the concerned friend and comfort me.
Because while Denzella is genuinely nice, she's also the biggest gossip in our old friend group. And right now, I'm counting on that.
"It's been hard," I admit quietly, staring at the table. "Especially since I've been alone."
The words land exactly how I want them to. I see the guilt flash across her face before she can hide it.
"Babe-"
I try not to visibly cringe.
God.
I hate that word now.
"It's okay," I murmur, forcing a small smile. "You don't have to explain anything. Friendships fizzle out, I guess."
The lie hangs between us.
Denzella instantly looks uncomfortable. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. Looking away toward the window, then the counter, then anywhere but me.
"It wasn't that."
My heart speeds up. I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting the urge to lean forward like this is the climax of a movie. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to hurry her along, but instead I force myself to stay still and ask, softly. "Then what was it?"
Denzella visibly hesitates. Her fingers tighten around her drink before she lets out a long breath and rubs a hand over her face.
For a second I think she's going to back out. Then she sighs heavily.
"God. Okay." She shakes her head. "Melissa told us."
My eyebrows shoot up. “Told you what?”
“Look, I get it. Our outings can be expensive. But you can't keep expecting someone else to cover you.”
"What are you talking about?" I ask, genuinely confused.
"Melissa paid for you all the time."
I actually laugh because technically she paid for all of us.
"We tried to do the meetings at each other's homes but then..." She shrugs. "Not everyone liked that and... it was just..."
"Denny," I interrupt her, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"The pool," she explodes. "Mel always paid, but we all agreed to pay her back and you never did."
"I always paid her back," I say, feeling my stomach sink. I know I did.
Denzella looks at me with pity. "We know, okay? She told us."
For a second I just gape at her.
"Look, I get it. Money is..." She shrugs awkwardly. "It happens. I know struggle, but-"
With a disbelieving laugh, I grab my phone and open Venmo.
Open Melissa's transactions. Then turn the screen toward her.
“See?”
Denzella leans forward.
When I sent Melissa my share over the years, I'd always written what the payment was for.
A habit my dad drilled into me after I accidentally paid the same bill twice in college.
“Drinks at Crystal,” I read aloud, scrolling through the transactions. Paid.
“Sushi bar the day before Thanksgiving.” Paid.
“The group gift when Heather had the twins.” Paid.
“The spa weekend.” Paid.
Payment after payment after payment. Every single one marked completed. Every single one with a date and a note.
“All paid.”
I keep scrolling. Not because I need to. Because at this point… I'm angry. Really angry.
Years of friendship, of dinners and birthdays and girls' trips.
And not one of them thought to ask me. Not one.
“She told us...” Denzella trails off.
I guess, there really isn’t much else to say? The evidence is sitting right there in front of her.
I lock my phone and slide it back into my purse.
When her eyes meet mine again, she looks away refusing to believe what’s right in front of her.
“That doesn't make sense,” she says weakly.
I let out a sharp laugh. “It doesn't?”
“There has to be a reason.” She shakes her head quickly. “Maybe you sent it to the wrong account or-”
“Wow.” The word slips out before I can stop it.
Denzella freezes.
“She's worth the benefit of the doubt,” I say slowly. “And I wasn't?”
“That's not what I meant.”
“No?” I lean back in my chair. “Because it sounds a lot like that's exactly what you meant.”
She visibly shrinks. “Bronwyn-”
“No. Seriously.” I laugh again, but there's nothing funny about it. “I show you proof that I paid her back for years, and your first instinct is still to find an excuse for Melissa.”
Her face flushes. “I just-”
“Then why didn't any of you ask me?”
Denzella winces.
The reaction tells me everything. Because there isn't a good answer. Not one.
After everything with Brad, after all the lies and betrayal and humiliation, I would've thought nothing could surprise me anymore.
Apparently I was wrong.
“She told us you hadn't paid her back in years,” Denzella says quietly.
I scoff.
“She said she understood at first because of the fertility treatments. Then you bought the beach house. Then the surrogate. She said she felt taken advantage of.”
For a second I just stare at her. Then I start laughing. Not because it's funny. Because it's insane.
“So let me get this straight. My friends. Women I considered sisters. Cut me out over money?”
“That's not-”
“You didn't even ask me.”
“It's awkward talking about money.”
I stare at her. Then I shake my head. “I guess it's easier to cut someone off than have an uncomfortable conversation.”
“Bronwyn-”
“No, really.” I smile bitterly. “Years of friendship. Years. And none of you thought maybe I deserved a phone call?”
Denzella doesn't answer. Because she can't.
I pick up my smoothie. It's still almost full. Then I stand and dump the entire thing into the trash beside our table.
Slowly, I turn back toward her. “You know what the worst part is?”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“I would've understood if you'd asked.” My throat tightens. “Money's awkward. I get that.”
I shrug. “But instead, you all sat around talking about me behind my back and decided I was the kind of person who steals from her friends.”
“Bronwyn, we're sorry.”
If I still cared, I'd point out that the 'we' in her sentence still think I'm a thief.
Looking her straight in the eye, I shake my head, “I'm done.”
“Bron-”
“No.” I grab my purse. “You don't get to disappear for months, decide I'm a terrible person, and then come back because it turns out Melissa got caught in a lie.”
My former friend opens her mouth. Then closes it again.
“Tell the girls whatever you want,” I say slinging my purse over my shoulder. “I'm not interested anymore.”