Her email subject line read: I know this is inappropriate.
I stared at it for a full minute before opening it.
She asked to meet. Said she had information I should have. Said she understood if I ignored her.
I almost did.
Then I pictured her necklace in that photo. The cream coat. The candlelight. The easy lean of Nathan’s body toward hers. I wanted to hate her in a clean, uncomplicated way. But reality was rarely generous enough to stay simple, and information is information.
So I met her.
We chose a coffee shop in Darien on a Monday afternoon because it was neutral and full of witnesses. I left Nora with Roz, who responded to the plan by saying, “If she gets cute, call me. I can be there in eleven minutes and I am not above public shame.”
Brooke was already there when I arrived.
She stood when I walked in, then sat back down almost immediately like she’d realized movement could look like confidence and didn’t feel entitled to it. She was prettier in person than in Doug’s photos, which annoyed me in a petty, human way. Dark blonde hair, camel coat, little gold hoops, the careful polish of a woman used to taking up space attractively.
She was also very obviously pregnant now.