No. No one knew. That was impossible.

“Um, hello?” she’d said into the receiver. “. . . Gracie?”

“Hey, Mama,” Gracie cooed in a low, sympathetic voice. “How’s it going?”

Gracie Lord was ten years older than Lauren, with an angular face and dark hair and a dry, masculine, unapologetic self-confidence. She reminded Lauren of Joan Jett. She’d probably been a cool girl in high school. And she had no filter: the first time Lauren met her, Gracie looped an arm around Lauren and asked her intimate questions about Matthew’s birth story. But before Lauren could answer, Gracie started in on the birth story of her own child—she was a single mother by choice—which included a third-degree tear that forced her to sit on a hemorrhoid pillow for months. Only cool girls in high school could talk about hemorrhoid pillows without shame.

Lauren also noticed how Graham looked at Gracie—his admiration was palpable. She didn’t want to think there was something going on between them . . . but, well, that was where her head went, like it or not.

“I’m okay,” Lauren had answered on the phone.

The truth? She was beat. From crying. From being angry and worried and freaked. Matthew had been fussy and grumbly, and nothing had soothed him: not a bath, not songs, not food, not drink, not baby massage, not colic drops, not even Clarissa vigorously swinging him back and forth, her arms nearly buckling. Lauren hadn’t even had the heart to step in and tell Clarissa not to swing him.

“Listen,” Gracie went on, “I can only imagine what you’re going through—the new mother thing is a bitch. And now daycare! What a scary transition. So I booked you at Sarina Ranch tomorrow morning. My favorite masseuse is going to treat you right.”

“You don’t have to do that.” She wasn’t used to being babied after behaving badly—Lauren’s mother had been more of the tough-love type, following through with the threats she issued when her kids were in the middle of tantrums. One time, she’d even canceled Lauren’s sister’s birthday party because Mel had mouthed off one too many times. She was the definition of someone who followed through.

And as Lauren looked around the ranch, she guessed the massage was going to cost a fortune. Did Gracie pamper other writers’ wives? Was there a deeper implication here, maybe even guilt? Once again, the thought that Graham might be too cozy with Gracie crept into Lauren’s mind. He’d seemed a little cagier in the past few weeks, like he was keeping something from her. And Gracie’s relationship status was a constant question mark. At a party, Lauren had heard her referencing a past male partner, and a gossip site once paired her with a semi-famous actor. Would she really sleep with a lower-level writer on her team? That seemed kind of . . . tacky.

Now, all checked in, Graham turned to a shelf of products, grabbed a box of bath bombs, and placed them on the counter. “Put these on my card,” he told the receptionist.