When Winnie woke up the next morning, Nigel’s side of the bed was undisturbed. It made her feel empty to see the space so untouched. Last night, when Nigel didn’t come to bed, she’d found him sleeping in his den…sleeping. Winnie had never understood how men could fall asleep in times of emotional crisis. How could he sleep when he knew she was upstairs crying? She wanted to wake him up, yell at him for not being more upset; in the end she’d wandered back upstairs and climbed into bed, still in her dress from the dinner party. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing the little stabs he made were stinging.

She rolled out of the tangle of blankets, wobbling on her feet when she stood. She was a wreck, a hot mess—makeup was swirled across her face in streaks of color that reminded her of Dalí’s distorted art. She heard Nigel’s voice in the back of her mind telling her that it was very generous to compare herself to a Dalí—especially if it concerned her cry face. Or, as her mother would say—she had the face of a whore who’d been out whoring. Her pillow agreed, though she hated that she was using her mother’s voice to slut-shame herself. Winnie most definitely did not want to be judged for the number of men she’d slept with.

She washed her Dalí face off during a quick shower, after which she threw on her sweats, parted her hair and pulled it into a low bun, and applied some mascara. She had to be Samuel’s mom today, not Nigel’s angry wife. To at least look a little angry, she wore large gold hoops in her ears. Nigel would understand what they meant. Then with a confidence she most definitely wasn’t feeling, she marched down the stairs looking fresh out of a nineties music video. Pausing to grab an apple from the bowl in the kitchen, she flicked her eyes upward and found her husband dressed and drinking coffee at the dinette. She kept her cool, grabbing the keys from the hook as she stepped through the door. Her descent was halted.

“Sam’s already home,” Nigel called. He’d waited until she was down the last step. Winnie had to walk back up, which was cherry-on-top humiliating.

“Subomi’s mom dropped him off. She said she texted you…”

Maybe. Probably. She hadn’t checked her phone since last night. Where was it even? Winnie tried to move with indifference, but Nigel had that knowing look—you’re wearing your face, slim.

She refused—refused—to speak to him. Marching straight upstairs, she went to Samuel’s door and knocked. He called out a lazy “Come in,” and Winnie did just that.

“Hey,” she said. Samuel looked up from his book for a second before his eyes found the page again.

“How was it?”