“Oh good,” she said warmly, in a sort of cat-who-ate-the-canary way. “So you admit it.”

  Admit it? That didn’t sound like something that I wanted to do. “Admit what?”

  “That you keyed my car last night.”

  A protest both rose and fell on my lips, the result some sort of garbled scoff. I clasped my hands together. “I did not key your car.” Was it a lie? I wasn’t sure. “I didn’t.”

  “Well, your keys were in the street near my car, and the blade on that knife was out, with bits of my paint still clinging to it.”

  I looked at my keys, the pink Swiss Army knife one of the many attachments on its ring. “I don’t—”

  “Stop,” Fran interrupted. “I told you yesterday that you needed to step up your performance. You didn’t want to hear it then, and I don’t want to hear your excuses now. The ice . . .” She paused for dramatic effect and planted her fingertips on the desk like spiders. “The ice has broken.”

  “Please, Fran—”

  “No.” She held up her palm to stop me. “It’s been a good run with you, Lillian, but it’s done. I didn’t call the cops last night, and I’m filing this with my insurance as an act of random vandalism. Consider that a favor and head on your way. Make this difficult, and you can forget any letter of recommendation or reference.”

  Wow. I reached for my keys and pulled them slowly toward myself, then stood, trying to sort through the mess. Fran leaned back in her ergonomic chair, laced her fingers together on her belly, and gave me that same smug little smile from yesterday. She was, for some reason, enjoying this.

  Maybe that’s why I did it. Maybe after a few drinks, and thinking of that smug little smile, I’d had a bad idea and told the taxi to take me to Ladera Heights instead of home. I could have done something worse. Keying a car wasn’t that bad. If I hadn’t dropped my keys, she probably wouldn’t have ever suspected me.

  “Goodbye, Lillian,” Fran said coldly.

  I didn’t respond, just held my head up high and left.

  CHAPTER 21

  LILLIAN

  My first unemployed day, I dressed in a white off-the-shoulder sundress, purchased a pair of new wedge heels that tied around my ankles, and headed back to the coffee shop in Marina del Rey. David Laurent, who had been a text-messaging machine, was in town for three days and was, quote, “dying to see me.”

  On the way, I rolled all the windows down and blasted Gwen Stefani, channeling my inner Taylor. Did I go by Tay-Tay? I hadn’t yet decided.

  Now, with my hair wilder than usual, I strolled into the café with a nonchalance that felt almost natural.

  “Taylor.” David raised a hand from a two-top by the windows and stood.

  His hat was gone, and his hair was a mess of sun-kissed waves, his glasses now perched on his head and keeping them in check. I could see his eyes more clearly now, green, and there was a bit of peeling skin at the tip of his nose. I stared at it, fascinated, because no self-respecting Californian burned, not if they were over thirteen.

  Without hesitating, he zoomed toward me, and there was a freeze-worthy moment when I thought he was going to kiss me, before I realized he was doing the French thing, a smooch on each cheek, and thank God I hadn’t gasped and recoiled, or puckered up and met his lips.

  “You look . . . incredible.” He was cupping my shoulders, looking me up and down as if in awe of what he was seeing.

  I laughed as if I hadn’t spent two hours in front of the mirror, in preparation for the event. “Oh stop.” Please don’t. Please continue, forever.

  He released my shoulders and gestured for the table. “Should we sit?”

  I moved toward the table and he pulled out my chair, a courtly gesture that Mike hadn’t performed in more than a decade. Sitting, I tried not to stare as he took the opposite seat. He looked good, and my attraction to him was interesting, because it wasn’t like the rough-around-the-edges, retired-surfer look did it for me. I liked . . . What did I like? The last time I was single, I was into scrawny builds, underfed abs, and boyish smirks. In this new landscape of grown men, I was a little lost. Listening to single women talk was a pros-and-cons list on steroids.

  Well, he has hair, so I can overlook the extra thirty pounds.

  Sure, he’s dull, but have you seen his home in Del Mar?

  The sex is horrible, but at least he makes me laugh.

  “How’s work?”

  I let out an awkward laugh, and while I knew he was asking about my imaginary calendar-buying gig, I told him the truth. “Actually, I got fired yesterday.” As soon as the news left my lips, I pinched them together, surprised at the confession, which I hadn’t shared with anyone, outside of Sam.

  “A true firing?” He looked intrigued, and I reminded myself that, as Taylor, I could spin this any way that I wanted to.

  “Oh yes.” I picked up the coffee cup with my new name written on it. “Big dramatics. Quite the scandal.” I took a sip and smiled coyly at him. “I’d tell you exactly what happened, but then . . . well. You know.”

  “You’d have to kill me,” he said earnestly, his eyebrows pinching in mock concern.

  “Exactly.” I shrugged. “Killing you would be a pain. You look like you’d put up a pretty good fight.”

  He laughed out loud, his gaze sticking on me as if he couldn’t get enough—and I didn’t know where my witty comebacks were coming from, but this role felt right, like one I was born to play.

  “Well, seeing that you’re soon to be in the bread lines, I’m obligated to cook you a dinner while I’m in town. I’m also obligated to give you this present, which is probably in terrible taste, now that you have become a pariah of the calendar world.” He grinned in an aw-shucks way and reached between the table and the wall, pulled out a wrapped gift.

  Lillian practically fell out of her chair in excitement. Thankfully, Taylor eyed the exquisitely wrapped box with the nonchalance of a woman accustomed to such gestures.

  I shouldn’t accept it. It didn’t matter that Mike had given me a Costco membership for my last birthday. I was a married woman, and David had just invited me to dinner, and here was where I should draw the line and remind him of the ring on my finger. “Hmm . . . ,” I mused. “I’m not sure a married woman should be accepting presents from handsome strangers.” I smiled to soften the point, which I’d already wrapped in a cushion with the word handsome.

  “There are some things a husband doesn’t need to know,” he scoffed, and pushed the box closer to me. “It’s an innocent gift. How do you say? Scout’s honor.”

  So there. Boundaries set. I gave myself a mental pat on the back and leaned forward, trying not to smile as I pulled at the red velvet bow elaborately tied on the front of the box. It was too big for jewelry, the wrong size for a book. There are some things a husband doesn’t need to know.

  So true. I pulled back the wrapping paper and opened the lid of the box.

  Inside was a fact-a-day desktop calendar, the sort where you tear off a page each morning, and I glanced up to see the teasing curve of his lips. “You got me a calendar?”

  “Well, I figured you didn’t have one.”

  I laughed. “Interesting assumption.”

  “You mentioned that your favorite kind were the fact-a-days. I would have brought flowers, but thought this was a safer, less assumptive gift.” He grinned at me. “Both informative and completely devoid of romance.”

  “It is rather unsexy,” I admitted. “I actually got this exact same one for my mailman.”

  It was a lie, but one he appreciated, his head dropping back in another contagious laugh, and I crumpled up the wrapping paper and tried to squash the warmth that was spreading through me every time our eyes met.

  It was a ten-dollar item. It shouldn’t have affected me, but it did.

  Our to-go cups in hand, we walked down the dock, past dinghies, sailboats, and houseboats, my steps slowing occasionally to read the name printed on the back of each boat. The dock was active, people passing, dogs running, crews working on the big yachts ahead of us, an easy camaraderie on the salty air. Several people called out a hello to David as we passed, and I eyed him over the plastic lid of my cup. “Come here often?”

  “I should. My second home is ahead on the right.” He pointed down the dock.

  “You stay on the boat?” I asked, surprised. When he’d mentioned keeping a boat here, I’d thought he meant for fishing, or skiing, or whatever sporty people did on the waters outside Los Angeles.

  “I do.” We moved to the side to let a group pass, and his hand made contact with my lower back, guiding me around a cleat, and then stayed there. “I try to be here two weeks of the month. The boat is my hotel of sorts, one I can take out if the urge hits me.”

  “So your business—you can do that from anywhere?” His business card had listed a textile company’s name. A quick internet search had revealed the business to be a chain of screen-printing shops that stretched across several states.

  “Yep.” He pointed to a white two-level boat on the right. “That’s me.”

  It was called Lost Buoy, and a portable set of steps led to the back of the boat. He offered me a hand and gestured me forward.

  I paused. “Wait, we’re getting on it?”

  “The coffee deck is on the top. Best view in the marina.”

  “The coffee deck?” I asked skeptically.

  “Well, it’s the tequila deck, normally—but I’ll make an exception for you.” He grinned, and there was a dimple hidden in the scruff of his blond beard.

  His hand was still extended, waiting—the courtly gesture of a livery attendant, waiting to help the damsel into the carriage. I took it, climbed the three plastic steps up, and then stepped over a gap of water and onto the teak deck of the boat.

  Three steps but they felt pivotal. Inside my chest, a callus began to grow around my feelings for Mike.

  CHAPTER 22

  LILLIAN

  I was jobless for less than forty-eight hours because David had a solution. The position wasn’t prestigious, challenging, or with the trappings of things like benefits, but it was available and it paid under the table, in cash. I was now a marina concierge, which was a dignified title for running errands for the yacht owners. I joined a crew of three that included a pimple-faced teenager Jacob’s age (Kyle), an old drunk (Shawn), and a bubble gum–popping lesbian (Jenn). There were no assigned hours, no hourly wage, and I clocked in by picking up a walkie-talkie from the harbormaster and clipping it to my shorts.

  It was perfect.

  The marina was divided into classes by the size of the slips. The farther out you went, the bigger the slips, with the yachts and megayachts on the far end. Concierge service was for the sixty-footers and up, which was around eighty boats, only half of which were being used. I was boat-dumb and couldn’t pick a catamaran out of a lineup, much less tell the bow from the stern. But the job didn’t need any sort of marine know-how. Our tasks were simple—the radio would crackle, a boat owner would request something, and one of us would jump into action.

  Literally, jump. Even Shawn hustled down the dock, his liver-spotted arms pumping, breath wheezing. I asked Kyle what the rush was for, and he said that tips were always better the faster you were. He was right. Twenties became fifties when I delivered bags of ice within two minutes, and a box of tampons from the nearest convenience store within five. The only time meandering was beneficial was during dog walks—we had twelve pups on-site—or when the owners wanted to chat.

  The evening of my first day, David delivered on his promise and cooked me fresh-caught lobster on his upper deck. I stretched out on his lounger, sipped ice-cold champagne, and listened to the faint sounds of steel drum music, playing from the adjacent hotel pool. We hadn’t kissed—we hadn’t done anything that violated the terms of my marriage—but there was an electric wire between us, one that held a flame under the thin string of my self-control. The break was coming, and the anticipation of it was vibrating through my chest.

  When I got home, Jacob was in his bedroom and Mike was in his recliner, a baseball game on. “Hey.” He muted the television, a courtesy that I wouldn’t have received a month ago. “Thought you’d be home for dinner.”

  “I had a late appointment, so grabbed something on the way back.” I dropped my purse on the dining room table and started up the stairs. “I’m going to shower and head to bed.”

  I was sore—an unfamiliar sensation that I liked. It had been the most physically active day that I’d had in years, and I peeled off my clothes and stepped under the hot spray of the shower, almost moaning at the sting of heat.

  When I stepped out, Mike was in bed, his shirt off, face hopeful, and I had a WhatsApp from David. I grabbed a blue plaid pair of flannel pajamas and returned to the bathroom, closing the door as I opened the message.

  Good night, beautiful.

  Oy. Three simple words that caused a bloom of joy to burst in my chest. I stared at the sentence for a solid minute, then closed the message and pulled on a clean pair of underwear and the pants, a smile curling the edges of my mouth.

  I should have messaged back and reminded David that I was married. Drawn a firmer line in the sand of our friendship. I should have told Mike about my job or, better yet, gotten a normal one and focused on putting my marriage back together.

  I should

  I should

  I should . . .

  But the problem was that I didn’t want to.

  “So how’s work?” Mike lifted a slice of mushroom pizza and took a bite. This was the third day this week that I hadn’t cooked dinner, and apparently no one minded. He should have had an affair years ago. The benefits were starting to outweigh the pain of it all.

  “It’s good.” I had walked the Trembles’ poodles for an hour and gotten a hundred-dollar tip. Midmorning, I’d eaten an ice cream sandwich while swinging my bare feet off the dock and watching three crew members lift Jet Skis off a megayacht with a crane. One of the liveaboards had given me a bag of swordfish, and David had made tacos with them for our lunch, which I had enjoyed with two beers and our first kiss. The kiss had occurred in the tight kitchen of his boat, my back against the cabinets, his beard brushing against my cheek as he had nuzzled my collarbone, then my forehead, the tip of my nose, and then finally, while I strained and mentally begged for it, my lips.

  He’d tasted like salt and mangoes, and had apologized as soon as he had done it. I’m sorry, mon chaton. I just cannot control myself around you. I had blushed and beamed like a schoolgirl for the rest of the afternoon.

  Tomorrow we were going to take the boat to Catalina Island for the day, just the two of us. Beneath the table, my foot jittered against the chair leg, and I set my slice down after taking only one bite. Mike was still looking at me, expecting more, so I tried harder with my lie. “An older couple died in a car accident, so I have a double obit to do. I spent most of the day with their kids and grandchildren.”

  Funny that I used to think of my job as cool. Now it seemed so morbid and dreary. And for what? The bottom rung of journalism salaries? I was making more money in jean shorts and flip-flops than I had at the Times, and with no Fran to answer to, no traffic to battle, no deadlines continually hanging over my head.

  I lifted my glass of ice water and took a sip. “What about you?”

  Mike always loved the spotlight, and he took the mic without hesitation, launching into a long and confusing narrative about Bitcoin and a potential financing solution that involved converting funds into blah blah blah—I tuned him out and eyed our son, who was on his phone and his third slice of pizza. Jacob was worrying me. If he sensed the turmoil in our household, he didn’t show it. His emotional detachment was convenient, but becoming more pronounced with time.

  “But that’s the issue, isn’t it? If the market turns, then we’re fucked. So it’s this game between buying now, when opportunity and risk is high, or waiting until the price rises with stability.” Mike got so excited about this shit. Was she into this? Was she matching him, line for line, and diving into the economies of foreign entities over late-night drinks and expensive steaks? Was that the missing piece, the opening she had used to worm into his life?

  “You didn’t tell me that you won Employee of the Month.” I had meant to sit on the info but couldn’t stop the accusation from coming out.

  “Oh.” He deflated slightly with the awareness that I didn’t give a damn about his current path of conversation. “Yeah. Last month. And the one before.”

  The note of pride that crept into his voice on the added sentence only fueled my anger more. Two months he had gotten the bonus? What had he done with those? Two bonuses would have covered six months of severance from the Times. “So?” I folded my hands neatly on the table, one over the other, my elbows jutting out to either side. “Where is that money?”

  “What money?” He glanced at Jacob, and it was a clear Let’s Talk About This Later sign, one that I ignored.

  “The bonus money, Mike. What did you do with it?”

  His eyes darted to the saltshaker, then to his beer, then back to me. “Credit cards. Just paid them off.”

  “Hmm.” I contained so much in that one word.

  The question of what had been on all those credit cards.

  The note that Mike had never held a balance on his credit cards, not in twenty years of marriage.

  It was a point of pride for him, a notch on some invisible scorecard that made him better than other men, that made us better than other couples, and one he felt the need to point out at any loan appointment or financial-planning session. And, just so you’re aware, we don’t have any credit card debt. He had never had debt, so I had never had debt, because my husband knew best.

  Mike wanted to say something, wanted to defend himself against my one snarky, passive-aggressive response, but he didn’t. I let him hang there while I carried my paper plate to the kitchen and dropped my half-eaten slice into the trash. I washed my hands, opened the fridge, grabbed one of his beers, and carried it upstairs.