And there it was: the rolling boil. Lauren had no idea where the fury came from—she’d tried to break it down to Dr. Landry, but it was futile. The fury coursed and snapped inside her, a black, bulbous shape that rose from some other dimension and yanked her by the collar, threw her out of her body, and took the helm. Even now, her waist tensed against the seat belt. A scream burst from within her, making Graham jump and Matthew start crying.

“Do you not respect me at all anymore?” It wasn’t even Lauren’s voice. It was something keening, primal, and bloody. “Do you even see me as a person these days—or just some unhinged woman who makes scenes?”

“Lauren . . .” Graham quickly rolled up the window, glancing out at the people on the running path. Regardless, a few passersby looked their way.

But Lauren didn’t care. Or, rather, the beast inside her didn’t care. “I was just trying to tell you a story about something I perceived as strange. I wanted to have a normal discussion where you took my side and we dissected it together—even laughed about it. But you always write me off!”

“Do you blame me?” Graham pointed at her. “Do you blame me, when this is how you respond?”

“You brought this on! And also, if you were so fucking worried, why didn’t you come in with me? Why did you stay on your stupid call?”

“Because I have a job,” Graham said, defeated now.

Lauren squeezed her eyes shut. “Pull over, please.”

“What?”

“Pull over. I don’t want to sit next to you.”

Graham did as she asked. When the car was in park, Lauren flung the door open and stepped into the murky air. It was scorching outside—how could people run in this? There wasn’t even a sea breeze, despite the ocean being so close by. Her long skirt stuck to her legs, and she felt fat and pale next to all the lithe, healthy bodies that were jogging past. Still more people glanced at her. People passing didn’t see a diagnosis, probably, a very real postpartum thing Lauren had discussed with a therapist who cost them $400 an hour. They just saw a bitch.

Shoulders hunched, she yanked open the door to the back seat and slid in next to Matthew. Once she was belted, Graham pulled away from the shoulder. He kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel, but he was too still, too watchful. He was afraid of her. Afraid of what she was going to do next. He had good reason to. Look at what happened in the kitchen. Look at how awful she was.

“I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly feeling drained. “I’m such an asshole.”

“No, you’re not,” Graham said, sounding defeated. “It’s okay.”