Chapter 5

5

ASPEN

I hate Ben’s smile. That’s an awful thing to think, isn’t it? What kind of wife hates her own husband’s smile? I used to love it, hunger for it even. I don’t know when those smiles of his changed—went from adoring to fake, and now, to disgusted ones. I pretend not to notice it tonight as I place dinner on the table. As always, dinner is a feast, both for the eyes and for the stomach. Okay, if I were to be honest, it’s more a feast for the eyes.

There’s a beautifully roasted free-range chicken with crispy brown skin, perfectly caramelized brussels sprouts with turkey bacon bits, salad with veg freshly picked from the garden, and low-GI red rice. Everything is organic and both diabetes and social media friendly.

In truth, the chicken is overcooked because to get that delectable brown shade, I needed to roast it just a tad too long. The brussels sprouts, too, are slightly burned to get those charred edges, and I can already tell from the sharp smell that they’re going to be bitter and will most likely end up in the compost bin. Nobody likes red rice; it’s dry and brittle, and the whole point of rice is the warm vanilla fragrance and chewy texture, neither of which is present when it comes to red rice. The salad is from a garden, but it sure as hell isn’t my garden, which has languished under the unforgiving LA heat this year. Not that anyone on social media would know; I am nothing if not meticulous. Ben had watched, incredulous, as I took the carrots I’d bought from the farmer’s market and buried them in our garden, only to take a video of myself unearthing them.

“Are you serious?” he’d said, with that disgusted snort-laugh. I’d ignored him. I have long learned that the best way to deal with my husband’s derision is to pretend it all went over my head. It’s not too big a leap for him to make, to think his wife is too fucking dumb to get anything he says.

Anyway, he smiles as I arrange each deceptively appetizing dish just so at the table. The kids are already seated, the twins on one side, baby Sabine on the other, and Ben at the head of the table. I take a video for my Stories, and my mouth pinches at how fake Ben’s smile is. He’s not even trying to look convincing for the camera. Neither is Elea, of course, but she’s six, and he’s a full-grown man with an understanding of mortgage, and healthcare bills, and why I need to keep doing this.

As I’m taking a close-up of the chicken, Elea reaches out and rips off a drumstick.

“Elea, please don’t.” I admonish her as gently as I can, but still she jerks back and looks at Ben with wide, sad eyes.

“It’s for Noemie,” she says in a small voice. “I don’t want her blood sugar to drop. Mommy’s taking too long.”

It’s a fight to keep my voice calm. “You didn’t really take it for Noemie.” Elea has never shown a shred of concern about Noemie’s blood sugar level.

Ben looks at me with—there are no other words for it—contempt. Then he turns to Elea and says, “That’s really sweet of you, Elea. I think you get a star for that.”

Elea beams up at him, and my stomach is so tight and sour that I think I might throw up. When I was pregnant with the twins, Ben had kissed my belly and said, “Promise me that you and I will always be a team? We won’t undermine each other in front of the baby?” I had promised, and I’ve kept my promise. But nowadays, it feels like it’s the entire household versus me, and I don’t understand how it got to be like this when I’m the one keeping everything afloat.

I force a smile—when was the last time my smiles came naturally?—and straighten up. “It’s fine. I’m done with the video.” I’ll roll with the ruined footage, because when have I not? I already know the caption: “Somebody couldn’t wait to dig in! #HomeCooked #BestRoastChicken.”

There are grumbles as everyone starts eating. Well, I say everyone, but the complaints are mostly from Ben and Elea, who hate absolutely everything on the table. Noemie eats quietly, but I can tell from the way she chews and doesn’t meet anyone’s eye that she, too, isn’t enjoying herself. Guilt and resentment fight for dominance inside me. What are they complaining about? I do my best to put food on the table every fucking day and all they do is complain. Then the guilt—a quiet, sharp whisper that slides like a knife across a vein: Yes, but you know the food sucks. It’s purely for aesthetics, but it tastes like crap. The chicken might as well be cardboard.

As usual, the guilt overwhelms everything else, and I end up getting up from the table and fetching a bunch of vegan “chicken” nuggets that I’d dumped into the air fryer twenty minutes ago. “Ta da!” I say, placing the nuggets in the center of the table. Everyone’s eyes brighten, even baby Sabine’s, and she’s still on purees, so I don’t know what she’s so excited about.

“How many am I allowed, Mommy?” Noemie says as Elea scoops huge spoonfuls of nuggets onto her own plate. I have to bite back a snarky comment about Elea not waiting for her sister before digging in. I force myself to focus on Noemie and do a quick calculation in my head. “Um, I think four’s a safe number. Do you agree, honey?” I add, turning to Ben.

I’ve caught him spacing out, as usual. It’s as though he hates my company so much these days that he’d rather escape into his own head. Anywhere but here. He blinks, then says, “Oh, yeah. Sounds good.”

Again, I repress the urge to snark at him and ask what exactly he’s saying yes to. There is so much bitterness to swallow these days. At least everyone’s eating now, even if it is frozen nuggets. Still, they’re organic and vegan, so that’s not too bad, right?

The peace lasts about five minutes. “Hey, Daddy, after this, can we go on Amazon and buy me a new iPad?” Elea says.

“Hmm?” Ben looks lost for a split second, his mouth full of vegan nugget, then he shrugs. “Sure.”

“Uh, I don’t think so,” I say, and realize there’s too much of a bite in my voice. I modulate it to a calmer tone. “I think it’s a good lesson for you to learn, sweetie. To take better care of your belongings.”

“But it’s literally been forever!”

“Mm-hmm,” I say without much sympathy.

“But I need it!” Elea whines.

I level my gaze at her. “Really? You need an iPad? What for?”

“All the educational games on it,” she shoots back. This kid definitely has too much sass for a six-year-old. “You were the one who said that I’m smart enough to get into a STEM program. Did you change your mind?”

“Of course not, but you’re taking robotics at school, and engineering. I don’t think you need an iPad to teach you STEM.”

“Daddy!” Elea whines, staring at him with huge, imploring eyes.

Ben opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, I quickly say, “Mommy and Daddy will discuss this later.”

He presses his lips together into a thin line and nods. I press mine into a smile. If there’s anything I’m good at, it’s pretending that everything is fine. “So I’m really looking forward to the shoot this weekend!” I say brightly.

Elea rolls her eyes, but Noemie gives me a small smile. Ben stares at me blankly, then says, “What shoot?”

It is so hard not to sigh at him. “The one with Maya? For next month’s posts.” Every month, I book a full-day session with Maya Alexander, my favorite photographer. We go through at least ten outfit changes, all of them matchy-matchy, of course, and all of them of us doing a different family activity. Since we’re shooting for October posts, I’ve already lined up a whole bunch of fall activities: I bought a dozen pumpkins, which we’ll paint white. I got orange food coloring so we can pretend to be making pumpkin smoothies, pumpkin cakes, and pumpkin cookies. And I got Halloween decorations, Halloween costumes (at least three different sets), and so on and so forth. Maya charges $350 per hour, so I have to be ruthless when it comes to planning these shoots.

“Oh god,” Ben groans. He actually throws his head back and moans like I’ve asked him to enroll in a marathon.

I resist saying anything snarky. I just look at him.

“I can’t do it,” he says, finally. “I’ve got an open house that day.”

Do not get angry. Do not show how furious you are. I keep my voice even as I say, “I’ve reminded you twice about this shoot. You know how important they are.”

“So is my job,” he bites back.

I want to shriek with laughter. His job. Ben is a midlevel Realtor who takes home less than forty grand a year, before taxes. Meanwhile, I’m making close to half a million a year after taxes. Guess who’s shouldering the burden of the mortgage on our beautiful Spanish-style home in the heart of Pasadena, and the extensive healthcare that covers Noemie’s ongoing treatment, and the competitive private school that the twins go to—the one that boasts at least twelve different kinds of STEM activities? Not to mention the pricey gymnastics and ballet classes?

But I don’t throw all of these at him. I’ve been warned, time and again, by well-meaning people like my own mother, that earning more than my husband does will emasculate him. And I don’t want to do that to Ben, not in front of the girls. So I swallow yet more bitterness and rage and say, “I’m sorry, but I told you about the shoot months in advance. It’s in our shared calendar. Maya is extremely popular; she won’t be able to fit us into another slot last minute.”

“Then you’ll just have to do the shoot without me,” Ben says, with a shrug. “Because I’m not canceling the open house.”

“Ben, please,” I plead. “The house you’re showing—it’s the one in Alhambra, right? I mean, it’s not…” I struggle for the right words to say. I don’t want the knife to cut too deep. “I mean, look, October is such a lucrative month for me. I’ll earn probably double the usual months. October aesthetics are—”

“If I hear that damn word one more time.” Though his voice is quiet, it is dripping with venom. “Aesthetics,” he spits out. “Our lives are nothing but aesthetics.” He takes a sharp inhale, as though he wants to throw his chair across the room. But then he glances at the twins, who are watching closely, and says (slowly, enunciating each word like I’m hard of hearing), “I am not rescheduling my open house.”

I can taste tears at the back of my throat. More than anything, I wish I could talk to Meredith about this.

“Go on,” Ben mutters as he stabs at a vegan nugget. “Go bitch about me to Mer like you always do. Oh wait, you guys aren’t talking because you’re in high school, apparently.”

I jerk up from my seat so sharply that my fork and knife clatter on my plate. “Sorry,” I say in a hushed voice. “Just gonna—just—bathroom.” I hurry out of there before the tears come.

Once I’m in the bathroom, I lean on the counter and focus on my breathing. I can hear cutlery clanging from the dining room, though no one is talking. The twins are old enough to know that Mommy and Daddy just had a fight. I can’t believe Ben said that to me. He didn’t pull any punches, just went straight for the jugular. He of all people knows how much space Mer takes up in my life—how much it had ripped me apart when we had that fight. He knows how much I’ve missed her, the numerous sleepless nights I’ve spent, my thoughts whirling around the giant hole in my heart.

Tears scald my cheeks. What am I crying over? My utter shambles of a marriage or my ruined friendship? I can’t ignore the feeling that neither is salvageable. The problem with Mer and Ben is that they both loved me only when I was a naive girl with stars and sweet inexperience in my eyes, and a pure innocent willingness to drink in their every word of advice like it was scripture. As soon as I outgrew them, their kindness and generosity sharpened into jealousy. Each time I dared to share any piece of advice I had learned along the way with them, I was quickly smacked down, reminded that my place isn’t above or even beside them. I entered their lives as a follower, and a follower I must stay.

I turn on the tap and splash cold water onto my face. I need to get ahold of myself. I take out my phone and open up my socials. As sad as it sounds, scrolling through my profiles is my favorite pastime. They’re a reminder of why I’m doing all of this—why I need to keep posting religiously. I put my favorite filters over this evening’s photos and post them to my Stories. The Likes come in almost immediately; many of my followers have added me to their notifications list. I already know which ones will usually be the first to hit Like. I lean against the counter and scroll as the comments stream in.

Grittme commented: Omg looks perfect!

And0p commented: @heartsandcrafts look how good that chicken looks!

tDahir commented: Ahh your family is srsly SO LUCKY

The outpouring of love is a balm to my soul. It sparks real joy, at least momentarily. A high I’m always chasing.

Gisssssselle commented: Lol I bet that chicken is dry as shit @fandomgurl

The high ends abruptly.

Fandomgurl replied: @Gisssssselle SRSLY right? The sprouts look burned too. Like plastic @Bonnie126376

Bonnie126376 replied: @Fandomgurl Oh this fakeass bitch and her nasty-looking meals again, FFS someone teach her how to cook. Can’t believe she’s making her fam choke down this garbage day after day

It takes all of my willpower not to throw my phone across the bathroom. I close the post and open another one that I’d posted earlier in the day: a Reel of me making low-carb keto bagels, which ends with Noemie biting into one with a huge grin. I’d captioned it, “Guys, I can’t believe how amazing these low-carb, low-sugar bagels turned out! Noemie LOVES them, so happy that we’re not letting #diabetes get in the way of her living life to the fullest! #LowCarb #LowCarbBagels #DiabetesAwareness.”

The top comments make me gasp out loud.

Fandomgurl commented: Low carb CARBS isn’t a thing, you dumb bitch @ninamoon look at this stupid bitch

Ninamoon replied: @Fandomgurl WHATTT? “Low carb” bagels, is she high?? LMAO

Teslalove commented: Making your diabetic kid eat carbs for Likes, this is literally child abuse

I shut down Instagram, but my hands can’t stop shaking, and my chest feels like it’s being squeezed like a tube of toothpaste. After making myself take several deep breaths, I compose a text to my assistant.

Aspen: Hi Liv, I just checked my Insta and was disappointed to see that there are still a lot of troll comments being made. We’ve been over this before; part of your responsibilities is making sure to delete troll comments before their presence encourages more trolls to join in. Please delete all troll comments immediately, otherwise we will have to reconsider your position as my assistant.

I read the message twice over. I have to make sure I don’t sound like a huge bitch, because there’s always the chance that Liv might screenshot it and post it for clout. After some hesitation, I delete it, then type out a new message.

Aspen: Hi Liv, I’m concerned about a few things. Let’s schedule a call tomorrow morning at 9am? Thx. xo

There. Firm, but friendly. The reply comes in almost instantaneously.

Liv: Yes, totally! Maybe I can come over to your place?

Aspen: We can do it remotely. I’ll call you then.

Liv: Ok, talk to you then!

I sigh and try to release some of the tension from my neck and shoulders. I close the chat app. Then open it again. I scroll down until I find Meredith’s name, but stop myself from sending her yet another text. I know she’s not going to reply. I can’t keep sending her texts.

Instead, I scroll through the dozens of new messages that I get every day. They’re all from different people—my mom, the dozens of influencers that I’ve gotten to know over the years, only one or two of whom I would consider actual friends. Then I come across an unread message that makes me stop scrolling. As much as I want to ignore it, I know I can’t afford to.

Clara: Has Mer said anything to you??

Aspen: No:(

Clara: I can’t believe her. I mean, I always knew she’s brash, but this is just ridiculous

Aspen: Yeah

It’s a challenge not to bite my fingernails as I watch the three dots appear, disappear, then appear again. I can’t be too angry about Mer, not to her sister. Their relationship is a tumultuous one, but with siblings, blood often runs thicker than water. The bond between sisters is deeper and stronger than many realize, even if it might appear flawed on the surface. That makes me think of Elea and Noemie, and how Elea had claimed to take the drumstick for Noemie. Despite everything, the thought makes me release my breath. Maybe Elea wasn’t lying. Maybe she really was concerned about Noemie’s blood sugar. Maybe there’s still a sincere, loving relationship inside this coldhearted home after all.