On the yacht with Vic and Samantha, she couldn’t concentrate. They thanked her for the rosewood serving bowl and the bottle of champagne; they delivered her to the stewards who showed her where Flynn would be sleeping for the week, where he would brush his teeth and where his folded underwear would go; they took her to the bridge and introduced her to the captain, who pointed at the gears and dials and told her what they were for, information she’d never remember, not even with a gun to her head; they handed her a mimosa and asked what she planned to do with all this freedom. But all she could think was: They know. They’ve seen the ad and they know how alone I am. Anyone who paid attention could tell which part of the ad’s requirements were Ted’s (the obsession with peer-reviewed data and mathematical analyses, the rigor that kept people at a distance) and which were hers (someone to cook with, someone who could teach her how to knit).

Holly hugged Flynn tight and made the rest of her good-byes quickly. She had nowhere to go, she just didn’t want to be here. What would she do with all this freedom? It didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like free fall.

On the boardwalk, a woman who’d been leaning against the rail, looking out at the harbor, turned around and smiled. She had an unfortunate slash of purple in her hair.

Holly kept walking. This happened sometimes. People thought they knew you simply because they knew your face. They started to call out and wave before they realized that you weren’t someone they’d gone to high school with or a neighbor or that other mom from the PTA. They recognized you because you were famous, or your husband was. Then they caught themselves, and either their faces strained while they tried to act natural or they exploded into excitement and begged for an autograph.

But this woman did neither. She fell into step with Holly.

“I saw you on Vic Henry’s yacht and I thought that was you,” she said. “I’m Rona Krotki from On Set.”

Shit, Holly thought. She’s seen the job posting. She’s figured out that it’s us. Her heart careened against her rib cage.

“I’m sorry. I’m in such a rush.”

“I know, you’ve got the Bump to Pump party tonight. I’ll be there with Serafina. We’d love to get you on tape at some point.”

“Sure. These things usually go through my publicist. Jane Blankenship. You can send her any questions in advance.”

“Definitely, we’ll do that, too. But there were a couple things we wanted to run by you without the camera rolling. Things that might be kind of—” and here she pointed her chin at Vic’s yacht “—awkward.”