I Don't Forgive You

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Copyright Page
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For John, Nina, and Roxy—always


 1
A little innocent flirting never killed anyone.
“You look like the sauvignon blanc type.”
“Is that right?” The guy standing next to me fills my glass to the rim from a bottle of New Zealand’s finest. I didn’t catch Wine Guy’s name. He’s the same age as the other dads at the party, but he gives off a different energy, like the one house on a dilapidated block that has been painted.
Sharp laughter carries across the kitchen, and I shoot a glance at the corner from which it emanated. It’s three moms from school who completely ignored me for twenty minutes while I listened to them debate Blue Apron versus Plated, with a dumb smile on my face, waiting for a chance to speak. I turn back to Wine Guy and smile. Men are so much easier.
“So there’s a sauvignon blanc type?”
“Oh, definitely.” He smirks, which makes his green eyes crinkle. We are at that age where men get sexier and women get Botox. “And you’re it.”
I glance over at Mark, but my husband hasn’t paid attention to me since we arrived at the annual Eastbrook Neighborhood Social. I can see his dark hair and the back of his checkered shirt on the opposite side of the Gordons’ kitchen; he’s talking to some of the other men about the Washington Nationals’ World Series chances.
“I’m it, huh?” We’re flirting, no denying it, and I don’t mind. It beats mingling and trying to make “mommy friends,” as Mark put it earlier. I spent the first hour of the party wandering around, trying to slip into other women’s conversations, feeling like a moth who keeps banging her head on the glass, a creature too dumb to know she’s outside and is never getting in. “So just what is this sauvignon blanc type?”
I eye the blond streaks in his hair as I lift the glass to my lips, relishing the cool, tangy wine gliding down my throat. I wonder if they’re produced by the sun or a salon. A squeal behind me makes me jump. I turn to see a blond woman in skinny jeans and buttery-brown riding boots embrace an identically dressed friend. I watch them kiss on both cheeks and am flooded with both contempt and jealousy. Aren’t we too old for such conspicuous displays of cliquishness? Also, why don’t I have any girlfriends who squeal when they see me?
“Sauvignon blanc folks like to think they’re unique, creative.”
“Creative, huh?” I pull at my skirt—the damn thing keeps riding up my thighs. I should have worn jeans like all the other moms here. The immense kitchen island offers cover for my wardrobe adjustment. It’s large enough to lay two cadavers out side by side, the gleaming white expanse of marble daring partygoers to spill red wine on it.
“That’s right,” he says. “You look creative. Are you an artist or something?”
I can’t help but smile. I’d like to think that I haven’t lost that spark, even though I’ve become a mom and moved to the suburbs. I let myself indulge in the fantasy that this guy can see I’ve still got it. “Or something. A photographer.”
“A photographer, like Ansel Adams?”
I have to laugh at that one. “More weddings and family portraits, fewer mountain ranges. Although recently I’ve done a bunch of headshots.”
“Anyone famous?”
I laugh. “D.C. famous, maybe. Ever heard of Congressman Marcel Parks?”
“I think so.”
“Did his headshot. There’s a chance I might be doing Valerie Simmons’s. She’s got a new book coming out about her experience in the Obama administration.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Val Simmons? I watch her on CNN. She’s a badass.”
“If you’re interested, you can follow me on Instagram. I’m Allie at allie-photo-dot-com.” Then I blush, embarrassed at how automatic it’s become. Ever since I took a class last year on branding and growing my online presence, I recite my Instagram address to everyone I meet.
“Well, that explains why you don’t run with the chardonnay crowd.”
“The chardonnay crowd? There’s a whole crowd?” I giggle despite myself. And why not? It feels good to lose myself in wine and banter. Since we moved to Eastbrook, a tight-knit neighborhood in the close-in D.C. suburb of Bethesda, and our son, Cole, started kindergarten, my thoughts have been monopolized by to-do items: buying school supplies, arranging lawn service, vaccinations. The soul-crushing minutiae that are both mundane and urgent.
“Sure. Lifetime members of the comfort zone.” He waves his arm around to encompass everyone else in the gleaming white kitchen, which is just smaller than an airplane hangar and boasts a stove the size of a Smart Car, as well as two Sub-Zero fridges. I wonder what the Gordons’ monthly gas bill looks like.
“All chardonnay furniture is beige,” he continues, not breaking eye contact with me, “and anything they’re not familiar with is weird.” He screws up his face when he says that last word.
But it isn’t just that Eastbrook is chardonnay country through and through. It’s me. I’ve never really fit in or belonged to a group. No #girlsquad for me. That wasn’t a big deal in San Francisco, and in Chicago, no one really noticed, but here in