This had to be done organically, in a way that would prompt Jake to wake up and smell the coffee on his own. The girl you think you still love—the so-called one that got away—is actually a lying, duplicitous cheater. A quick Google search pulled up your bio on the website of Yoga Tree, a small, privately owned studio in Flynn Cove, Connecticut. Molly Diamond O’Neil has been teaching Vinyasa yoga for nearly a decade. Her classes integrate creative sequences with meditation, music, and spiritual philosophy. She lives here in town with her husband and daughter.
It was easier to convince Jake to move out of the city than I’d imagined it might be. Plus, the timing worked in my favor.
I raised the topic one night on our honeymoon in Maui, during a romantic dinner on the beach arranged by the hotel staff. Everything was perfect—the air was soft and warm, the food and cocktails delectable. Palm trees stretched above our heads as the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky lighting up into an idyllic Hawaiian sunset. The gentle surf lapped against the shore just feet from our table. Jake and I were finally relaxed and rested after our whirlwind wedding weekend, just able to enjoy each other.
“Babe,” I started, caressing his sun-kissed forearm. “I’m going out on a limb here, but what do you think about moving out of the city? Nothing permanent, but just while you’re working on the solo album. Could be nice to have a bit more room. Some peace and quiet so you can really focus. New York just gets so claustrophobic.”
A slow smile crept across Jake’s face, and the shimmer in his eyes told me he liked the idea.
When we got back from Maui, I didn’t waste any time before looking at real estate.
“How about this place?” I passed Jake my laptop, opened to a Zillow listing. It was a wintry Saturday morning, and we were drinking coffee, cozy in our bed. “There’s an open house tomorrow.”
“Flynn Cove?” Jake squinted at the screen. “Too WASPy for me, Sees.”
“It’s a beautiful town, Jake. An hour from Manhattan, easy commute.”
“I dunno.” He sipped his coffee. “Too preppy. Expensive.”
“Didn’t I tell you my grandparents used to live there?” The lie slid out easily. “I have memories of visiting them as a child. It’s right on the water. Besides, you know the money isn’t a problem.”
Jake didn’t care about wealth, not actually. But he wasn’t threatened by the fact that I had money; on the contrary, he respected it. He prided himself on never standing in my way.
He sighed. “Let’s look at it.”
I put in my notice at Marc Jacobs three weeks before we left New York. I didn’t exactly want to leave my job—I’d been there since graduating from FIT and had really climbed up the ranks and made a name for myself—but we didn’t need the money, and though Jake would be making the daily commute into Manhattan on the train, I had no interest in doing the same. I decided I’d consult for a few brands, but nothing full-time. The truth was, I’d worked like crazy for many years—first as a distraction, and then later, to prove to myself how independent I could be. Besides, I had a new priority now: you.
My plan was straightforward. The first step was to get close to you, worm my way into your circle of trust. It’s the reason I landed in Dr. Ricci’s office that morning back in May. I couldn’t merely pretend to like yoga and assume that would be enough to fuse a genuine bond between us. No, I needed to discover the root of your most potent pain. I needed to meet you there. That would be what solidified our connection.
Believe it or not, it was Meredith Duffy who clued me in on your prolonged struggle to conceive baby number two. My ex-colleague Amber, a senior buyer at Marc Jacobs, e-introduced me to Meredith when I announced to the office that Jake and I had closed on a house in the suburbs.
“Omigosh, you’re moving to Flynn Cove? I have to connect you with my sorority sister Meredith Duffy,” Amber had gushed. “She’s, like, Mrs. Flynn Cove. Runs that town. I’ll set it up on email.”
I knew I wasn’t likely to hit it off with a sorority sister. Nonetheless, I took Amber up on her offer and arranged a lunch with Meredith a few weeks before our move. If she actually did run that town like Amber insisted, perhaps she knew things about its residents.
So over Cobb salads at the FCCC—hers sans blue cheese, dressing on the side—I happened to mention that my husband’s ex lived in town.
“To be honest, he doesn’t know that I know,” I’d confessed. I watched her eyes bloom with curiosity. Meredith, too, is a woman who does her fair share of snooping.