He’d abandoned Mandy at the bar. That was pretty uncool of him. Plus, Roy’s daughter was at his house, waiting for him to come home and pay her for watching Ted. This night was so confusing.

“I’m not sure what I’m doing,” Peaches said aloud. She’d meant to think it, not say it.

A man wearing noise-canceling headphones over a khaki-colored fishing hat wandered across Henry Street at the far corner and turned up Kane Street, hands tucked into the pockets of his beige fleece vest.

“That was my husband,” she observed. “Do you think he saw us?”

PART III ONE WEEK LATER

Chapter 18

Mandy was exhausted. She’d been exhausted for an entire week, ever since the karaoke shindig at the bar. It felt odd that the day after that big, busy night was a regular, normal weekday, just as it always was. Ted went to school and Stuart went to work. Then it was the weekend and they did their normal weekend things—cooking, eating, and watching TV. Then it was Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. She googled things about living with MS, watched more anorexia movies, stole her Russian spy neighbors’ food, cooked it, drank their wine, and ate pot cookies. Karaoke night seemed significant enough to have changed everything, but everything was exactly the same.

It was Thursday now. A whole week had passed. After the boys left, Mandy lay on her back on the bed in the kitchen and considered what to do next. She could tackle the stack of bills under the bed. She could deal with Stu’s fan site. She could find another movie to watch, or try to go back to sleep. Each day she’d been living with the preposterous lie that she had multiple sclerosis, she wondered what to do next. She’d come up with the disease in the first place in order to not feel guilty about staying in bed. Now she felt not guilt but exasperation. She was not a stupid person, but she had done a stupid thing.

For Mandy, the most significant takeaway from karaoke night was how often people told her how beautiful she was. Even people who didn’t know that she was “sick.” And Stuart seemed more attracted to her now. He could not stop touching her last night. He’d been sending her random flirty texts. Work is boring, i miss ur boobs, or, u r my dream girl, or, u really do wake up pretty, or just, hello beautiful.

Was she? Was she beautiful?

She was shallow, clearly. Why did it matter so much to her?

Wendy Clarke had given her the name and number of some model agent person.

“My friend Manfred thinks he’d go crazy over you,” Wendy promised. “They said he’s always looking for new faces.”

“But I’m old and fat and—”

Manfred—of the perfect eyebrows and incredible legs—stepped in at this point.