“To think about what?”

“About what we’re doing.”

“And what are we doing?”

“Well.” I snort. “You’re having an affair.” I realize I don’t entirely believe his story about it being just a kiss. What sexually deprived husband who’s officially separated and has permission from his wife to have sex with other women would stop at just a kiss?

He snorts back. “I’m not having an affair! It was just a kiss, I swear!” He sits down at the table. “Look, nothing’s changed. We’re still separated. And we can’t actually separate. Except for that one thing, our situation is pretty much the same as it was before. Let’s not get crazy.”

But something has changed. He’s made a break for it. He’s done us each a favor by taking that first step. Is it possible that I feel relieved?

“It’ll be a quick road trip for Teddy and me, something we haven’t done in years,” I say, explaining that since Sari Epstein’s farm is only two hours from Boston and a few towns over from Gary’s mother’s house, which is right near Dartmouth College and on the Vermont/New Hampshire line, I’ll figure out an Airbnb or a cheap last-minute hotel, then drop Teddy there for two nights while I’m busy writing and drawing and coloring and meditating. “It’ll give us a chance to have time together in the car and go to all his favorite diners on the way there and back.”

It’ll also give me a chance to be without the dog for a weekend—now that the People Puppets can act as part-time dog-sitters, I can practice being slingless for when Lucy comes to live with us. I’ll tell Teddy after dinner. I know he’ll be as excited as I am.

* * *

“No, Mom.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“I’m not going.”

“But you love our road trips!”

“I used to, but I don’t anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m different now. I just want some time alone!”

“But you’re always alone!”

“I’m not! I’m always in school! And when I’m not in school, I’ve got homework! I haven’t even started the outline of my yearlong Immersion Project, and the last thing I want is to be trapped in a car for a million hours.”

“Three hours. At the most.”

“No!”

“I’m tired of ‘no’!” I’m starting to understand how frustrating it must be for Gary to deal with me.

“And then there’s everything else.”

“Like what?”

“Like the Secret Pooper.”

“Has he pooped again?” I ask, then wonder about my use of the male pronoun—my assumption that the Pooper is a he.

“No, but everyone’s waiting for it. Every time you leave the classroom you have to sign out, and then they watch you walk down the hallway to see where you’re going. If you say you have to go to the bathroom, they check the bathroom after you come back. I feel like they’re always watching me. Like they think I’m guilty. Like they think I’m the Pooper. But I’m not!”