Elizabeth explains, “It’s Colette’s memoir, more or less. Not the greatest work of literature of all time, but it’s delicious and haunting, knowing what we now know. The way she rewrote herself is almost sorcery, and the imagery is to die for.”

“In that case, proceed with caution,” I say. When no one asks about me, I add, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to regroup after a hectic day at work.”

Luna waves good-bye without looking at me, and for a split second, it sounds like she might be asking me a question, but no, she’s just soliciting opinions about Colette’s braid. I might as well have vaporized as I trudge to my room with fire under my skin, calling on all the old tricks: counting backward, counting breaths, visualizing my heart staying calm, visualizing a gentle breeze on an empty beach. Behind me, a bottle cap hits our glass tabletop, sending ice picks through my skull, bombing my mental beach. I’m not mad about being excluded from their drivel. I’m mad that I care about being excluded. Those women are mistaking Nick’s role in our lives. They think he’s a connector. Nick probably agrees, and the longer he believes—

A digital bell chimes.

My head quiets, a Pavlovian tick. The digital bell chimes again.

Elizabeth has left her cell phone charging on her nightstand. Normally I’d ignore it, but nothing’s normal these days, so—two new texts from her sister, Laurie. An inside joke, I presume. Nothing urgent or emergent, but now the phone’s in my hand, so flicking my thumb feels natural, not treasonous. I scroll past texts from me and Jonah, some from colleagues, two billing notifications, an emoji from her father in Missouri. Nothing from Nick. Even the most innocent houseguest texts his hosts every so often, and vice versa—need paper towels? or help yourself to leftovers, or, do you have a spare key?—but there’s nothing here. Not a word.

Her photos: our house, a sunset, the overgrown elm in our yard. Happy family at Elizabeth’s nephew’s graduation last spring. Screenshots of book reviews, articles, and maps. Pictures Elizabeth took in dressing rooms, reflections of herself wearing gowns with tags still on them, tight jeans I’ve never seen, a skirt I recognize, or don’t. They are intoxicating, these self-portraits in overhead light—proof that she would never buy a dress without knowing how it looks on her body from every angle, even when I’m not there to assure her.

Downstairs, someone breaks a glass, maybe a bottle. Something shatters. Our guests are occupied by an innocent accident, but so am I, because stumbling into Elizabeth’s private world has made me greedy to know more, to know everything, completely—or, at the very least, better than those strangers downstairs.