Many mornings, I woke up with a hangover, and my money was dwindling fast. Though I was still pitching articles and writing essays, my payments went directly from the publishing companies to my bank account, which I’d been too afraid to access since coming up here, in case Davis had found a way to keep track of where I made withdrawals. I was planning on making a trip to the city soon, emptying it all and then leaving right away, but even so, there was only so much in there. The wine and take-out could not go on forever.

As I took another sip of wine, I let myself glance at Vera and John’s intertwined hands again, unable to help myself.

There was something else threatening the carefully balanced triangle we’d created – more than what the residents of Woodstock felt about a couple of Manhattan snobs. More, even, than Davis.

Me.

It was impossible to make it stop, though I had tried. Over the past six weeks, whenever John and I were alone, I couldn’t help but fantasize, imagining him and me, together. Picturing a world where I would be the one he reached for after telling a joke, where we would retire upstairs in the farmhouse, not them.

Like last week, in my kitchen: Vera on the sofa a room over, John next to me at the counter where we couldn’t be seen. Our hands had accidentally touched as he passed me the plates, and he’d laughed, jovial and deep, as he nudged me with his elbow: ‘I’m pretty sure the cook’s not allowed to do dishes.’

I turned, and he was right there, and all sorts of fantasies ran through my head.

It was a stupid crush, a schoolgirl one, really, one that had bloomed so quickly I found myself replaying Mr Darcy’s words in my head – I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun. John was everything I’d ever been looking for in a man. Safe, but sexy all the same.

The feelings weren’t mutual, and I was thankful they weren’t. To him, nothing had transpired in that instant beyond run-of-the-mill helping with the dishes. His eyes were for Vera, not me. Whose wouldn’t be?

But still, I’d thought of him, the closeness of him, the way he smelled like wood chips and orange oil, when I reached beneath the covers in bed that night.

Sometimes I wondered if maybe it hadn’t even been an affair, if Rachel had simply fallen prey to his charms, too. If Vera and John’s friend, that warm, cheerful, and seemingly harmless divorcée, had developed a crush on John, and if that’s what had torn the trio apart. If, one night, I’d have too much wine, and my feelings would show – I’d give myself away.