Page 42 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

“Maybe.” Mariah devoured a mouthful of eggs. They were so good here! She realized she was feeling really excellent. Nothing hurt this morning. Maybe she’d needed that long rest. “I think for my coach, she had this idea that if she was thin enough, he’d, like, see her and want her again.”

Veronica visibly flinched. “Well, I did get kind of overweight the past few years.”

“So what?”

“Well, that’s part of the marriage contract, that you’ll watch your figure.”

Mariah snorted. “‘Watch your figure?’ Is this 1952?”

“It’s not the same for your generation,” Veronica said, bristling. “Girls now are mighty; they get to be who they are. Men of my generation still want women to be a certain way.”

“All of them?” Mariah didn’t know why she was pushing into an arena that obviously made Veronica uncomfortable. Maybe it was just interesting. The part of her brain who liked stirring things up was awakening. “Or just your husband?”

“I don’t know,” Veronica said with irritation.

“Let me guess. Your husband found a younger woman and blamed it on you.”

Veronica tossed the fork down. “Not exactly.” She stood. “I’m going to get ready. Henry will be here soon.”

“Either way, he’s probably a dick.”

Veronica lifted her shoulders. “Which makes me an idiot, right?”

“No—”

Veronica left the table and closed her bedroom door. Hard.

Mariah ate some more bacon, pondering. There was life in the old Gen Xer after all.

Chapter Twenty

In her room, Veronica found herself so furious her hands were shaking. She ripped off the dirty blouse she’d put on this morning and turned on the shower, thinking of twenty retorts she could have made to Mariah’s speculations.

She shimmied out of her jeans and underclothes, testing the temperature of the water. In the mirror, she spied her shoulders, the arc of her collarbone, and for a minute, it amazed her all over again. She turned to face the mirror. That lovely line of collarbone she was so proud of, but—now she had to admit—she could also see the faint outline of ribs on her upper chest above her breasts, which were deflated by the same weight loss.

Never in her life had she been this thin. Amber said it was the divorce diet, that you just got so unhappy you didn’t eat, and that wasn’t far from the truth. But Mariah had unwittingly struck a nerve, too. In some part of her, didn’t she imagine that if she were thin enough, more like her younger self, that Spence would remember how much passion there had been between them? Maybe he’d finally wake up and toss Fiona out in the cold.

Veronicahadgained weight over the pandemic, but it had been such a joyous time! The whole family together, baking bread and making elaborate meals. All of them had taken on a specialty to master—Veronica worked on pies, both sweet and savory (which was how she came to master banoffee), Spence on fresh pasta. The kids all chose aparticular cuisine they liked. Tim chose Thai, and had indeed perfected a peanut sauce that flavored lunches for months. Jenna focused on macarons and other French delicacies, and Ben made bread. When she looked back, her primary memory was cooking with her family to the sound of music on the speakers, their creations filling the air with the scent of love and coziness.

They had also taken long walks, and hiked the multitudes of trails around Boulder, often walking all day, feasting on grapes and crackers and brownies when they stopped for breaks. Her thighs and calves grew strong.

All of them gained weight. Her belly got soft and round, her bottom big enough she had to buy new pants. The bonus was boobs, of course, noticeable enough that Spence bought her undergarments to show off her cleavage, and at night buried himself in the new bounty.

They’d had so much sex during those long, barely structured days, eager to get to bed at night after feasting on whatever dinner they’d enjoyed, and a bottle of wine, and the playlist they took turns making. Instead of getting tired of each other, Spence and Veronica had renewed their passions, exploring each other in ways they hadn’t had time to do since before the children arrived.

Even now, the memories could make her restless. They’d been very good in bed together from the very beginning, learning each other’s secrets with exuberance and intent, and although it was a surprise to learn how much more they could discover twenty-five years in, it was a delight. Veronica felt eighteen again.

So she hadn’t minded the extra weight. Spence had gained a bit, too. They were getting into their middle years. It wasn’t surprising, and honestly, hadn’t everyone gained weight during the pandemic?

Everything had seemedso good.

And then a woman’s name kept coming up in conversations, in stories. Fiona, a visiting poet from Ireland, with the requisite accent. She looked like a caricature of a Pre-Raphaelite model, red curls tumbling over fragile shoulders, her skin blue white and utterly poreless, her paleeyes big and round. Veronica never had a whiff of warning about her—the woman seemed as insubstantial as dandelion fluff, not much older than their oldest child. Not her husband’s type.

Spence grew busier and busier and more distant that semester, rarely home for dinner. In her loneliness, Veronica walked her dog, Sophie—at least she was still around!—and had begun to realize she had to find a job.

One night in early January—she could imagine he’d told Fiona that they had to get through one last holiday together—Spence came home, sat her down, and said baldly, “I’m in love with Fiona, and I’m moving out tomorrow.”

He’d matter-of-factly packed a bag and left the house where she’d been happy with him for approximately 9,200 nights. The shock was so sudden, so intense, so impossible that Veronica had admittedly lost her mind for a time.