Chapter 2
THE ART OF BELONGING
NATALIE
The following Monday, I was rushing. Again.
I lost track of time at Target, wandering aimlessly through aisles of things I didn’t need—a new set of storage bins, throw pillows, candles that smelled nice but their shade probably wouldn’t match anything in my house.
I wasn’t even sure why I was shopping. Lately, I kept feeling as if I had too much time on my hands, too much space to fill.
Jason had a work dinner in LA last night, flew straight to New York, and wouldn’t be back until the end of the week.
It was becoming his routine—coast to coast without looking back.
He checked in occasionally, usually just to ask how the kids were, but some nights it was radio silence.
I told myself it didn’t bother me. We’d never been the kind of couple who stayed up late talking on the phone.
Still, the quiet felt heavier than it used to.
When I finally glanced at my phone and saw the time, my stomach dropped. I sprinted to checkout, choosing the shortest line, shifting anxiously as the cashier took her sweet time scanning each item.
By the time I pulled into the school parking lot, the bell was seconds from ringing.
I was lucky to grab a spot in the pickup mayhem.
Moms, nannies and au pairs were already lined up at the gate, perfectly put together in their ALO leggings and oversized sunglasses, chatting easily with one another.
Meanwhile, I was still juggling my coffee and keys, trying not to look as frazzled as I felt.
As I hurried toward the gate, I passed a cluster of gossiping mothers. One was complaining loudly about the PTA bake sale and how someone dared to bring store-bought cupcakes. Another was retelling a story about a disastrous dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant, complete with spilled wine.
And that’s when I saw Will, standing slightly apart from the fray, his hands in his pockets, relaxed in a way that made him look, almost, out of place.
He wasn’t alone today.
A blonde woman stood next to him; tall and striking. She had the same natural ease as he did, the same jawline, so much so that they looked related. Still, I had to assume she was his wife.
Will said something to her, and as if on cue, they both looked my way. I froze for a moment, feeling oddly self-conscious. I quickly offered a polite smile.
Ivy and her brothers came bounding through the gate. Ivy’s face lit up as soon as she saw the blonde woman, and she ran straight toward her.
“Aunt Sarah!” she yelled, throwing her arms around her.
Oh. So, not his wife. Relief hit me before I even realized I’d been holding my breath.
Will walked up to me. “Hello,” he said warmly, with his dimples carved deep in his cheeks.
Sarah and the kids followed, Ivy holding up a self-portrait she’d drawn, eager to show it to everyone.
“Look! It’s me!” Ivy said, grinning.
Just then, Bebe and James came running out of the gate. James launched himself into my arms, his wavy hair flopping into his eyes as he giggled. Bebe, more composed but just as proud, held up her own self-portrait for me to see.
“Mom! Look at mine!” Bebe said, holding her picture next to Ivy’s.
The girls started chatting about their drawings, comparing colors and details like little art critics.
Sarah extended her hand to me, introducing herself. We chatted about the girls’ budding friendship and school activities. Sarah was friendly and approachable, but there was a polish to her that made me feel slightly out of place.
After a few more polite exchanges, we said goodbye. I loaded my kids into the car, their drawings carefully riding shotgun. On the way home, Bebe and James chatted about art and recess. But I couldn’t help myself. My mind wandered.
To Will. To his calm presence. How blue his eyes were like the best day of summer.
And those dimples. They were reckless. Like they knew the power they held and didn’t care who got hurt.
I shook my head as if trying to clear it.
These thoughts were borderline embarrassing for a grown woman with two kids and a Costco membership.
The next day, there I was again, back at the gate, this time waiting with Camille, my neighbor and friend.
She was glamorous in that way that seemed to start trends, a Paris-born former model who still looked like one.
Her husband, Tate, met her on a business trip, and three months later, they were married.
Their twin boys, Hank and Henry, were in Kindergarten with James.
As we chatted about our day, I admit I was looking for Will when I saw Ivy and her siblings walking toward a different tall blonde woman, one I hadn’t seen before.
She was statuesque, with the kind of beauty you expect to see on runways, clad in crisp white denim and Hermes slides, her polished appearance was a stark contrast to my decade-old Gap tee, straight-leg jeans, and an Indiana University baseball hat I threw on to cover my three day old hair.
“That must be their mom,” I said, more to myself than Camille.
Camille nodded knowingly. “Kelly,” she said. “I know who she is. She used to model, too.”
I could see it. There was something about her that felt untouchable, like she belonged in a different world. I thought about introducing myself but stayed where I was, unsure how to bridge the gap.
As the days passed, with Jason traveling so much, I started volunteering more in my kids’ classrooms. At the school’s book fair, I noticed Ivy standing near the back of the room, her hands empty.
Other kids, including my own, clutched fifty or one-hundred-dollar bills, piling books into their arms like it was Christmas.
I noticed Ivy was quietly scanning the shelves.
“Do you see anything you like?” I asked, crouching beside her.
She looked up at me, her eyes wide. “I don’t have any money with me. I think my mommy forgot about the book fair,” she said softly.
My chest tightened. Something about the way Ivy felt struck a chord. I remembered when my parents weren’t getting along—how they would forget the smallest things, things that probably didn’t matter to them but felt big to me.
“Pick one,” I said. “It’s my treat.”
Her face lit up. “Really?”
“Really.”
She darted off, finding Bebe to do her shopping and came back with a glossy Taylor Swift biography, clutching it to her chest like a treasure. “This one,” she said, her voice brimming with excitement.
“Good choice,” I smiled, adding it to the stack Bebe had found.
As the book fair wound down, Ivy found me again and hugged me tightly.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice muffled against my sweater.
“You’re welcome,” I said, ruffling her hair.
I watched her skip back toward her classroom with the book in her hands, her face beaming with pride. For reasons I couldn’t quite explain, I felt a little pang in my chest.
That night, as I packed lunches for the next day, I couldn’t stop thinking about Ivy. And then, inevitably of course, I thought of Will.
There was something about him that stuck with me in a way I didn’t want to admit.
His calm presence…it didn’t fit with the way his wife presented herself, I thought.
Maybe they really weren’t getting along, the way my parents had not in the end.
And then I wondered if maybe, just maybe, he was divorced.
I shook the thought away and focused on sandwiches to cut, water bottles to fill, laundry to fold. But something had shifted in me.
It was small—a barely there idea—but it was enough.
And I couldn’t shake it, the feeling that the restless thoughts about Will was just the beginning.