Now
Sunday, August 15
Woodstock, New York
I headed into Woodstock that afternoon, desperate for sunshine, for fresh air, for a drink, intent on putting George out of my mind.
In the middle of town, I found a beer garden speckled with picnic tables, right behind the main parking lot, where a long-haired hippie was crooning on a makeshift stage up front. I ordered a double IPA and a large fries, craving numbness.
I’d spent the hours after George left leaving messages for my lawyer, trying to get into the portal, Googling custody battles and reading Reddit threads on divorce, trying to figure out how in trouble I was, the notion always at the forefront of my mind: George was going to win. George always won.
I kept my eyes peeled for other Brooklynites, but I didn’t see the woman from my baby group—or anyone else—and tried to enjoy my beer.
I was deep into the next round when I spotted Willa on the other side of the field, tanned and relaxed, cheerful and seemingly content, in a polka-dot dress and a wide straw hat. She was dancing, spinning that little girl round and round as the man next to her tipped back a beer, tapping a foot along to the music, like this life of hers up here was the most natural thing in the world.
A flame of rage flickered within me. She was the one who’d pried and prodded, who’d ordered all those margaritas. She was the one who’d wanted the whole miserable story, but when I told her everything, she just . . . left.
Screw her, I thought. Screw her and screw George, and screw all these kinds of people who think they can get away with murder, who think the rules don’t apply to them.
I set my beer down, and I stood. This had gone on long enough.
My heart raced as I approached her, one foot in front of the other.
“Willa,” I said, her back to me.
I saw it, in the quick jolt of her shoulders. Recognition. A name she’d answered to many, many times before.
She didn’t turn. But I didn’t move.
It took him a moment, but the man I’d seen last night finally sensed that something was wrong. He scratched at the back of his head, stared at me like I was an intruder, reached instinctively for the little girl.
“Willa,” I said again. “Answer me.”
“Can we help you?” the man asked.
I ignored him. “Willa.”
Finally, she stood fully, turned around to face me. “Like I said before, you must have me confused with—”
“You can’t pull this with me anymore,” I said, my voice desperate, pleading. “Willa, it’s me. You don’t have to pretend.”
Her lips parted, as if to speak, but then the man crossed his arms. “Listen, her name’s not Willa—it’s Annie.”
The moment was broken. Willa looked down at the grass.
I glanced around, saw that people were staring. In the periphery of the beer garden, I spotted a dad I might have seen at one of the playgrounds in Brooklyn. I shuddered to think how I must look. “Fine,” I said. “Fine. Do whatever you want. Be whoever you want.”
I turned on my heel, seeking only escape, but as soon as I was out of the place, I heard footsteps behind me, then felt a hand brush against my arm, soft, warm. “Mary, wait.”
There she was. Sun on her hat. Chest rising and falling from running to catch me. Sweat beading against her chest. “I told Rich I had to go to the bathroom to compose myself, I just—”
Her presence hit me like a shock. Only moments ago, I’d been begging her to acknowledge me, but now here she was. Doing it.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” she said finally.
That did it, that sent budding, drunken tears right over the edge, streaming down my cheeks.
“Oh god,” Willa said, stepping forward. “God, I’m making it worse.”
She wrapped her arms around me, and for a moment, I let her hold me. Smelled her musky Tom Ford perfume, a hint of the Altoids she popped like candy. Then I came to my senses, pulled back almost viciously.
“Who are you?” I asked. “What is going on?”
“I can explain, but . . .” Her eyes darted around. “I can’t do it here, okay? I’ll slip out this evening. Eight o’clock? The place you were last night. Right next door is a proper wine bar. There are seats tucked in the back where we won’t be seen.”
“You saw me last night?” I asked.
“Of course I saw you,” Willa said. “Take it from me, Mary, never try to moonlight as a spy.” Then she grinned, and for a moment, it was like I had the old Willa back. “I didn’t expect you to follow us all the way home, though.” She squeezed my hand. “Listen, I have to go, but tonight, okay? I’m not a total monster, I promise you. I told you I was your friend, and I meant it . . . I still do.”
It was overcast as I left the house, just before eight.
I knew that Willa wouldn’t be able to help me in the mess I was in with George, but still, I couldn’t resist a chance to know who she was, to finally get answers. Closure, even.
I found her at a lone table on the bar’s stone patio, seated beneath arced branches, as if she’d carved a little opening out of a copse just for us. She smiled at me, as if nothing in the world was wrong. Anger bubbled up from deep down, rushing up my spine as I took the seat opposite her—how could Willa still act so normal?—but before I could say a word, a waiter was there: “Can I get anything for you, ma’am?”
“The pinot gris is fantastic,” Willa said. She plopped the glass in front of me. “Go ahead, try it.”
I pushed the glass back at her, then nodded to the waiter. “Sauvignon blanc, please.” I knew that whatever Willa had was probably better, but I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of taking her recommendation.
“And another of these for me,” Willa added. “Oh, and two waters.” She smiled, nodding to me. “This one is a total mom about it, in the best way, always making sure you alternate booze with true hydration.” The waiter smiled politely and dashed off.
“I know you have to hate me right now,” Willa said, diving right in. “I mean, I would hate me, at least.” She laughed, finished off the remaining wine in her glass. “And I am going to tell you everything, promise. But I want to know how you are. I’ve been thinking of you, these last two months.”
“How I am?” I asked, dumbfounded by her nerve. “Really? Let’s see. I’ve been living on my own with Alex with basically no friends, no one to talk to. We celebrated his second birthday alone, just him and me—you were going to do that with me, remember? Paw Patrol decorations and Doritos?”
“I remember,” Willa said gently. “And I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m here now. You’re here now. What is going on?”
Willa’s head tilted to the side. “But why are you here, Mary?”
“Because I wanted out of the city,” I snapped. “And George agreed to me moving here with Alex. But—”
The waiter returned then with two glasses, cutting me off. The condensation was so thick, I could have reached out a finger and written a message on the side. I grabbed mine quickly, suddenly eager for the drink.
“Ma’am,” she said to Willa, delivering the wine to both of us. “The card you gave us to open the tab isn’t going through. Do you have another we can try?”
Willa’s eyes widened, only for a moment, and she leaned over, digging in her purse, and quickly came up with another. “I’ve been having issues with the chip on that one. This should work fine.”
“What was that about?” I asked as soon as the waiter was out of earshot.
“I know,” Willa said. “Swiping the card at the beginning? What do they think, we’re Thelma and Louise or something? Going to get the booze in us and run off?”
“Are you using a stolen card?”
Willa huffed. “No, Mary, I’m not using a stolen card.” She laughed and shook her head, like I was a kid employing toddler logic. “The chip is having issues. Like I said. Anyway, is George up here with you?”
“What?” I asked, thrown. “How did you know—”
“Oh,” Willa said. “I mean, you seem so upset, and usually, when you are, it has something to do with him.” Her eyebrows narrowed. “Hold up, hold up. Don’t tell me you slept with him or something.”
“No,” I said, practically jumping for my wine as heat rose to my face. “No, of course not.”
“Oh my god,” Willa said. “Oh my god, you little hussy! I was joking, but you did, didn’t you! You really did?”
“It’s none of your business,” I said.
“So did you tell him about me?” Willa asked casually. “About seeing me here in town?”
“No,” I said, eyebrows narrowing. “Why would I?”
“I just figured you’d want to tell someone, and I know you don’t have many people to confide in. You must have been so shocked. Meeting Annie, you know.”
“George isn’t exactly the type to run to in a crisis,” I said bitterly. “But enough about him,” I said. “Why are you going by Annie? What happened to Jack Senior? What happened to your son?”
Willa’s smile faltered at the last word. She almost seemed to wince. And in that moment, it was like I could hear it, while the crickets around us chirped and the glasses of white wine sweated, the sound of Jack Junior’s little voice: Willa! Willa!
“Oh my god,” I said, setting my drink down. “That’s why he never called you Mama. You told me he liked to say your first name, and I bought it. But you were never his mother at all.”
“To be fair,” Willa said, tossing her hands up like we were arguing about little more than who took the last slice of pizza. “I never technically said I was.”
My mind flashed through all of the memories she and I had made together—lazy days at the swing set, sticky tequila-soaked nights—and I remembered so much. Her telling me that three was a good age, her calling Jack Junior pet names, divulging the secrets she used to get him to sleep at night. But she hadn’t said it outright, had she? And who did that, anyway? All, Hi, this is Alex, and I am his mother.
“What are you, then?” I snapped. “Some kind of messed-up nanny?”
Willa half rolled her eyes, but even as I said it, it didn’t compute, either. I had met Jack Senior, he’d swooped in and kissed her, almost passionately, right there on the edge of the path in Prospect Park. Willa’s silver fox. Impossible to forget.
“A nanny who screws her boss, I guess?”
“Easy there,” Willa said. “I get your point. But, no, I am not a nanny. I’m a lot more than that. I was there when Jack needed someone. And I was everything to Jack Junior. I was the one reinforcing his potty training, teaching him his letters, signing him up for summer camp, planning his perfectly portioned lunches—I may have been a salty snack queen, but you should see how many fruits and veggies I chopped up in tiny little pieces for his lunch—getting him the right-sized, right-looking clothes for every season, buying bougie toys that would keep him engaged, researching pediatric dentists because Jack Senior’s insurance changed. Me. Now, does it really matter if we shared blood or not?”
“Where was his mother?”
Willa eyed me, as if making a decision as to how much to divulge, then pressed her lips together, readying herself to swallow a bitter pill. “She died at the end of last year.”
“She what?”
“Oh my god, Mary, get a hold of yourself! I didn’t kill the woman, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was a car accident, apparently. I never met her—obviously.”
“So what happened then? You were with them, calling yourself Willa. And now you have a new name. And, what? A new family?”
“I know how it looks, trust me,” she said. “But things went south with Jack, and way before I expected. He kicked me out, and I had nowhere to go. And like I said, one damn sapphire necklace isn’t going to do shit for a security deposit in Brooklyn. So I bailed town, and then I met Rich up here. And—”
“You created a whole new identity?”
“Jack turning on me—it screwed me up, okay? I wanted a fresh start. Anne’s my middle name. I didn’t buy a fake passport on the dark web, promise. It was a little name change. Happens every day.”
“Then why did you pretend not to recognize me? This guy doesn’t know your past, does he? He doesn’t even know who you really are.”
In a flash, I remembered that last time we ever went out together, the way the waiter had given me a credit card that said Eric on it. Eric Walton. I cocked my head to the side. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? This is . . . this is your scam. Shacking up with dudes, getting their money, bouncing? That credit card you used that last night we met up. It’s not that Jack is a middle name, as I foolishly believed. It was from some entirely different guy.”
“Eric gave that to me,” Willa said firmly. “He told me I could use it whenever I needed anything. It’s not my fault he was too wrapped up in his world, too flush in money to need to worry about those things, to remember to get it back after we broke up.”
“Oh my god, Willa, how many times have you done this? How many . . . men . . . have you manipulated like this?”
“I’m good at being who men want me to be, who they need. When women leave, they leave a big gaping hole, and men start to realize just how much these women were doing to keep their world afloat. I mean, mental load—hello? It’s not a crime to fill that hole, Mary.”
“And that’s why you hide your real identity behind nicknames and lies? Because it’s all so aboveboard?”
“Listen to me,” Willa said, and for once, her voice wasn’t charming, jovial. It was strained, and it was like I was seeing a glimpse into the real her, one tiny layer pulled back. “Things right now . . . they’re tenuous, okay? I can’t entirely explain it, but I have to lay low, and it certainly wasn’t in my grand plan to run into you.” She reached out her hand to mine, and for a moment, I let her take it. “And I hope, based on the fact that we really were friends, that we really did care about each other, I hope, after every walk we took and every joke we made about all the uptight Brooklyn moms around us, you’ll let me do that. Because I swear to you, on every damn season of The Bachelor and The Bachelorette, that your friendship did mean something to me. For a little bit, it meant everything. I didn’t want to ghost you, but I didn’t have a choice. So in honor of that, I hope you won’t go kicking up drama with Rich. With anyone.”
I gazed at her a moment, and I wanted to believe it, I really did, but the hurt ran too deep. “You didn’t ask me here to connect, not even to explain. You asked me here to secure my silence,” I said. “You can say whatever you want, but that’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“Mary, my dear. Please. I care about you. I promise.”
I whipped my hand away, disgusted. “You wouldn’t have done what you did if that was true.”
“Mary,” Willa said, frantic now. “Just do me this favor.” Her hands swept around, and I’d never seen her so off-kilter. “I have a lot to lose. You don’t get it, okay? You can’t possibly get it.”
I stood so fast, my chair almost tipped over. “Maybe your sob story would have more sway with someone who wasn’t already losing everything. I’m leaving, Willa. I’m sorry I came.”
It was only after I’d backed away that Willa stood, and she said it so firmly it almost felt like a threat.
“Just keep this secret for me, and I’ll make everything up to you,” she said.
“Help me out, Mary. You won’t regret it.”