Page 5 of Sweet Ruin

Then Vivian, who was twelve, decided she loved it.

Mom said, “Oh, let her wear it, honey, it looks so sweet on her,” and that was the end of my time with the coat. It hung in her closet until she outgrew it and then it went to Goodwill.

When I was twenty-two, I got into the pastry program in the city. I had a plan and a deposit down.

Then Vivian announced she wanted to go to school in California.

Dad only had so much cash that year, so I got a hand on my shoulder and a speech about how I was the strong one, how I could work and save and go later.

I did go later. Much later. Seven years later, with my own money.

In high school, there was a boy named Kellen Estrada who I liked so much my hands used to sweat whenever he was around. Vivian sat on his lap at my own eighteenth birthday party, then they left early in his car. I told everyone it was funny and that they looked so cute together.

So the pattern isn’t new.

This is just the latest instance of it.

She took my husband. In my bed.

Filmed it.

And then uploaded it to an album she shared with me.

That last bit is truly bonkers. I mean, the affair is, too, of course. But that’s such a huge thing that I don’t think I’m emotionally ready to process it just yet.

No, it’s the album that’s got me in a tizzy right now.

How careless do you have to be to expose yourself like that? Then again, that’s just who Vivian is. I can’t even picture her doing anything else.

Trying to keep a secret? Deleting things? Thinking twice?

Hell no.

She’s never had to be careful about anything in her life, because she’s always had Mom or Dad or me to cover up for her oopsie-daisies.

Do-It-All Delilah was always there to save the day.

But she’s not the only perpetrator here, is she? No. She’s not.

My husband has a role in this thing, too.

It’s funny—as much as I was enjoying this morning’s work, I really was looking forward to going home. To doing exactly what I promised Priya I’d do, making cinnamon rolls and then going to bed with Connor.

Now, that whole happy, domestic image is spoiled.

What would it look like if I went home now?

I’d drive home, back out to Sheepshead Bay. The garage door would whine when it cranked open. I’d go up the stairs, skipping the loud steps, and find Connor asleep in our bedroom with his arm thrown across his face.

I’d turn on the overhead. With my phone dangled in front of his eyes, I’d say, Explain this.

And then what?

He’d sit up. Squint. He’s always been a devoted poker player, so his face wouldn’t give anything away.

He’d just say, Delilah, are you saying that’s me? Are you crazy? Have you lost your mind? That could be anybody.

You’ve been up for twenty-four hours. Look at yourself, you’re not even making sense.