And later, after the truth had been told, I’d think how if Dom had been there, if he’d still been a part of the Kid’s life, that he’d have seen it. He’d have known. If it’d happened at all.

And that… well.

That hurt too.

THE DOORBELL rang one summer afternoon. I was home sick, curled up on the couch with a blanket, surrounded by discarded tissues, tea cooling on the coffee table in front of me. I was zoned out in front of horrible daytime TV, unsure why the panel of women were shrieking at each other when just a moment before they’d seemed like they were the best of friends.

Otter was out of town, having been hired by some political website I’d never heard of (“I would have been surprised if you had.” “Hey! I know things!”) to follow around an up-and-coming Martha’s Vineyard reject on the campaign trail as he ran against some stuffy incumbent. Otter had shown me the picture of the man he’d be stalking (“Photographing, Bear, photographing”), and he’d been all wavy hair and perfect white teeth, and I told Otter in no uncertain terms that if this douchebag tried to get all up in his shit, I’d cut them both.

Otter, for some reason, had found that hysterical and apparently attractive at the same time, because he kept laughing while also trying to give me a hand job. It was really an awkward experience, but then he’d twisted his wrist just right, and I’d sucked on his neck while he snorted in my ear.

You don’t say no to hand jobs.

He’d been gone for a couple weeks and wasn’t due back for six more days, but I wasn’t pining. No, of course not. I was just sitting on the couch, dying, while my husband was hundreds of miles away from me.

“Because I don’t feel bad enough about that as it is,” he’d told me on the phone when I told him as much.

“Good,” I’d said. “Because I’m pretty sure my lungs are about to fall out of my mouth.”

“Well, you do sound terrible.”

“Thanks. Really.”

“I can come home. You know—”

“Stop. Don’t. I’m just feeling sorry for myself. You’re doing good with what’s-his-name. Has he hit on you yet? Everyone knows that most young Republicans hire gay hookers and have sex with them.”

“Wow. That’s not a real thing at all.”

“They said it on the news.”

“I think that might be the cold medicine talking. And no, he hasn’t hit on me. His wife is also here.”

“Please,” I snorted. “I had a girlfriend once. Still kissed you.”

“Oh boy.”

“You’re a home-wrecker.”

“I’m not a—”

“Came in and wrecked that home. Couldn’t let me think of anyone else, no matter how much I tried.”