It was a little past eight o'clock when Clay got the text from Trina.

He'd volunteered to be her assistant soccer coach, only because Ellie pushed him to, telling him it would be a good way for them to impress the other parents and make more friends. Trina had asked for his cell number so the two of them could communicate about the logistics of soccer coaching, but she'd been texting him frequently about non-soccer-related things, including I dream of Jeannie (which they'd apparently both watched reruns of as teenagers) and the recent string of arson.

"Want to talk more soccer strategy?" the text said. "Tonight at The Orchid?"

The Orchid was a bar around downtown Mountain Springs, but it didn't seem to be a destination for adults over thirty since so many college kids frequented it. According to some of the other Lake End dads, parents liked to stay away from there, except on those rare nights when they got so drunk they ended up there by accident during last call. They said that if you ended up there, you'd had a wild night.

One thing seemed clear: Trina wanted to meet him privately, but she didn't want other parents to see them meeting.

Clay thought about saying something cheeky like, "They're kindergartners. How much strategy do they need?" Something that showed his disinterest in whatever she was proposing, even though his interest was piqued. But then he noticed Ellie pulling into the garage, so he put his phone into his pocket.

Walking through the door, she looked more done up than usual. Her hair was down and curled at the ends, her lashes boasted clear mascara, and her boots made her look like a true local. He wished he could say her natural beauty was more beautiful, but the right amount of makeup really did accentuate beauty, and her accentuated beauty made him want her, right then. He was having one of those moments where he couldn't believe she was his.

"How was the meeting, sweetheart?"

"Oh, you know. I signed my soul away to that devil woman. Now she's going to own me for the school year, and I'll be at her beck and call, baking on command, helping kids read, creating documents."

"Documents?"

"I might've mentioned I have a working knowledge of Microsoft Office."

"Shouldn't have done that." He pulled Ellie in for a kiss.

She pecked him lightly, just once, then said, "I just talked to Dylan. He told me he'll be here in two weeks."

"Shit. Sorry—I meant to talk to you about that before he sprung it on you. Are you still alright with that? We can rent him a hotel room if you don't want him to stay here."

"Of course I want him to stay here!" She sounded sincere, and he felt a twinge of jealousy, even though he'd never really wanted to spend money on renting a hotel room. "I mean, it was sort of my idea, anyway. I can't wait. It'll be all late movie nights and popcorn until we find him his own place."

"What if we have a late night tonight?" Clay asked, pushing himself up against her.

"Not tonight," she said, the same answer as most nights, and he remembered his thought from just a moment before, when he couldn't believe this girl was his. Truth was, she wasn't his, not always. Only when she wanted to be. They only slept together when she wanted to, and lately, that wasn't often. She would sleep with him when they arranged for a date-night sitter because she felt obligated, or when he mentioned it had been over a month because she felt bad, but never spontaneously of her own volition, never because she wanted it. Their sex wasn't even lovemaking anymore, just hurry-up-and-get-himself-off quickies, and that wasn't because that's what he wanted. She told him, "I'm pretty tired after that meeting. I might go to bed."

As she walked away, he hesitated before saying, "If you're checking out for the night, I might meet a friend at the bar. I'm pretty wound up."

"Sure," she said, without looking up. He almost wished she would ask who he planned to meet, but she didn't, merely saying, "See you in the morning."

*

Trina already sat at the bar when he arrived, ready with a whiskey for him. Still in disbelief that he consented to meeting this woman, that he was doing this shit again—this shit that had led to your first divorce, he reminded himself—he took a swig before sitting down on the barstool.

"Rough night?"

"Can't complain," he said, taking another too-large swig. He could taste how expensive the whiskey was, and complaints would only taint the flavor.

"No. You really can't. How old is your wife? You're like the Hugh Heffner of Lake End."

A bit startled by her bluntness, he laughed awkwardly and sipped at his drink, wondering why she'd skipped to the topic of Ellie's age without warming up. Her motive, the knowledge she seemed to be fishing for, was obvious to him:she wanted the truth of why he and Ellie were together. It didn't drive him away.

Trina signaled the bartender for another round.

"Trying to get me drunk?"

"It's gonna take more than a couple whiskeys to do that." She touched his arm affectionately.

He could already feel the alcohol, and it was taking away the regret he felt before, the shame he felt for coming here. It made her gentle touch feel like a warm blanket on a cold night, something he should welcome.

Trina's flirtation had gotten bolder. He was used to flirtation from other women—women besides Ellie, that is—and he was used to feeling like a magnet; many women, especially the mothers of his children's friends, had fawned over him from a distance. One mother once called him an "enigma" straight to his face, and although she didn't explain her word usage, he assumed it was because he was both Indigenous and financially successful. The statement was offensive, but it hadn't offended him all that much. He hoped his good looks worked magic on these women, too. Ellie used to tell him he had the best smile and the hottest body she'd ever seen. He still worked out at the gym, and his teeth were as white as ever thanks to bleaching, but Ellie never commented on his looks anymore. Maybe her attraction to him had died.

If Trina was attracted to him, the attraction was mutual, and she could probably tell; it explained her boldness right then. It would be hard not to be attracted to her. Her facial features were pleasing and proportionate, her auburn hair made her look like a librarian, and she dressed and acted like a high-class woman. She had a great body, a marathon runner's body. Ellie had told him that most of the other moms hated her, and Clay couldn't deny that the other women's jealousy only served to enhance Trina's allure.

Clay wished her looks were the only things that allured him; maybe then he wouldn't feel so shitty about meeting her. But the truth was, he was even more attracted to her intelligence and ferocity. He'd heard the Lake End PTO president position was coveted and highly competitive, and Trina's possession of the role did not surprise him.

And underneath her hard exterior, she was kind. With every soccer practice, he'd gotten to know her a little more, and she seemed sweet, reasonable, and down to Earth, and so relatable, since she, too, had grown up in the '80s, and still appreciated the aesthetic qualities of that era. That was how she had lured him here, he decided.

"Can I ask you a question?" she said, and he guessed she was three or more glasses of white wine deep by the way her words tumbled out of her, absent of their usual sharpness. "I mean, I know she's great to look at, but do you have anything in common? Does she even please you?" She was still talking about Ellie. "My sex drive didn't even kick into gear until I was thirty. And even then, it took a few more years' experience for me to learn the best ways to please a man."

"And where is your husband tonight?" he asked, taking another gulp, feeling like he should be straying from this line of conversation but not wanting to.

"A business trip. Probably fucking his assistant, Kyleena. It's funny. We moved here because he was going to stop traveling so much, to let his underdogs do that for him. I mean, there's not even a good airport here, but he keeps making excuses to bolt on the weekends. He isn't leaving for work, though." She took another drink of her wine, before gazing down at the bottom of her glass.

Her truth came out so easily and it surprised him. The shared secret made him feel even closer to her, but he didn't know what to say back. "I'm sorry. That's rough."

"She's the same age as your wife. God, I just don't understand it. I mean, is it really that much better? Youth?"

Even though she was talking about her own husband, she made Clay feel like some sort of cradle-robber. He most certainly was not, and that phrase made him cringe whenever he thought or heard it. But Ellie had been too young when they'd started sleeping together, and he knew it. He'd been forty-two; she'd been eighteen at the time. Her youth hadn't been the thing he was attracted to, though, but rather the carefreeness that came with it. That, and her views on the world: an existentialist at heart, she advocated for a world of freedom and choice.

He reflected on that now, that time when her speech had been casual and uninhibited, when she would always pepper it with unnecessary cuss words. When she would dress freely, exposing her stomach, thighs, shoulders. He used to eavesdrop on her and Dylan—she had such a way of coercing Dylan into things, like piercing their nipples together, or doing psychedelics in the desert, or going to those haunted houses where you had to sign waivers so the employees were allowed to touch you. She had done whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, because she had been free, had believed in her own agency.

Now, she let herself be constrained by her role as a mother. She'd taken her nipple rings out when she started breastfeeding, and never put them back in. Changed her mind about all those tattoos she wanted. Kept her hair a natural color. Talked about things like sugar replacements and good red wines and the children's section of the library. Never cussed. Even their sex, on the off chance they had sex, had gotten increasingly boring.

And she bitched at him for getting high. Pot was legal in Colorado, but she was scared of other parents finding out, freaking out whenever she saw a bottle of his favorite Sativa on his desk, nagging at him, "Did you go to one of the pot shops to get that? Don't do that!" Never mind that he was a grown-ass man and didn't need her permission, and never mind that some Lake End parents smoked it, too, and probably had before Amendment 64 was passed. God, Ellie from seven years ago would have never bitched at someone for smoking pot.

Lost in reflection, Clay didn't answer Trina's question, so she asked him another. "Why did you decide to marry someone so young?" Her fingers were on top of his, going in back-and-forth motions like she wanted to comfort him, working a magic on him.

He felt bold enough to be honest and to ignore the stupidity of being honest. So, he laid out his shame for her viewing pleasure. "Because she was pregnant with my son, and my other son told me that he was going to ask her to marry him." And if that had happened, Dylan might have married Ellie and raised his little brother Avery like he was his own son. How could Clay have lived with himself?

Trina looked full to the brim with potential gossip when he finally looked up from inside of his whiskey glass to see her reaction, and he wondered if he'd just made a terrible mistake. One of his darkest secrets now rested in the hands of a woman he barely knew, a woman who had the reputation and the resulting power to wreck his life should she wish to do so. He suddenly imagined her spray painting his secret on the glass windows of his firm, for everyone's viewing pleasure.

She told him, "Well, listen to that. Let's have another cheer for our imperfect lives."

The bartender brought over another round, and Clay decided dwelling on his spilled secret would do no good, not at this point. They clinked their whiskey and wine glasses, a celebration of self-pity, and she told him, "My babysitter's paid for until twelve." She leaned closer, breathing into his neck. "And I have an empty guest house."