"Only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love." —George Eliot

Valerie opened the door to her casita, just out of bed, with a clear pillow mark on her cheek. She wore a t-shirt advertising a Cambridge feminist documentary series and faded leggings. I was very sweaty, seven miles of hard running up and down hills, the early morning beginning to reflect the heat. I had dreamed of Luke, a tiny baby marooned on a miniature island, the water rising rapidly. "Momma," he cried, holding his small hands, reaching towards emptiness, the water just at his fingertips.

Before the run I watched the sunrise, violet and pink streaks reflected across the walls of the casita. I reviewed sex, tabulated, calculated, classified, indexed, and labeled it. There had been break-up sex and reunion sex, happy, sad, and angry sex, grief-streaked sex, and violent sex. I had been coerced, forced, seduced, guilted, and blackmailed into having sex. I had been raped, slept with my boyfriend's best friend. Slept with a black man who had called me a racist until I took my clothes off, a woman who failed to delight, strangers. I'd had sex out of pity, exhaustion, rage, and, yes, desire, boredom, and sheer curiosity. Sex didn't matter to me anymore, but love, love was something completely different.

I had loved my best friend killed at twenty-one, my first boyfriend whom I betrayed, other men who gave me back my "stuff," my parents, and my other sister, although she seldom seemed to love me back. I had loved the monk briefly, several cats, and the boy I met in Ireland. I loved my oldest sister most of all, and she had died. I loved her son, and the love that had knocked me sideways; my love for my baby was so intense it made all the other loves less important. I loved Kevin but was that situational love, both of us wanting a child, needing a partner, fascinated by each other's lives? And now there was Scott, who I loved despite everything that opposed the feeling. Was it his beauty or his talent, I wondered. It felt like I loved him for his soul, his perfect acceptance of the importance of happiness.

It was time to leave Taos, collect my son, and face his father. I needed to understand how and why this had happened. There had been a time with Kevin when I'd written poetry describing myself as a mermaid rising out of the foam, transformed by our connection. There had been unconditional and seamless appreciation for the other in that space. But that was at the beginning; before the race was run, the sprinters exhausted. That was before we had revealed ourselves as flawed, greedy, and unforgiving. Before we had pulled away and taken up our roles as the ambitious journalist and the trailing spouse.

"I have to go home," I said again. "Before something happens."
"Has it happened?”
I nodded. "But I can fix it."
"How?"
"Denial. He's the father of my child."
Valerie nodded. "Go tomorrow. It's Scott's birthday. We're having a party tonight, and now it can also be your farewell party. Leave tomorrow, Molly. Have you slept with him?"
"No." I sat down on a kitchen chair and started to cry. Valerie handed me a box of tissues. "It was such happiness and peace," I sobbed. "I have to go home."
"If you were happy when you came here, Scott would never have stood a chance."

My father sometimes warned me I read too many books about women escaping from the confines of their lives. He was especially alarmed by my love for Joyce Carol Oates' heroines who had a reckless disregard for their lives. I also had a penchant for the dark truths of Doris Lessing and the rage of writers like Fay Weldon while maintaining a passion for doomed love affairs, as portrayed by Emily Brontë. Yet, I found stories like Thelma and Louise and The Awakening infuriating since the women didn't escape; they perished. Death wasn't freedom. It was something else.

"I have no idea what it means to be married."
"It doesn't mean anything in the abstract. We didn't get married until Lucy was five, and it was too much paperwork to be her parents without a legal agreement. Having a wedding doesn't make you a wife or a husband any more than having a child makes you a mother. You're definitely a mother, by the way."
"My parents are completely enmeshed. I never wanted that."
Valerie nodded. "Hey, Helen's demonstrating this thing she does with photo emulsion in a few minutes. People are coming to her casita. Come with me. It will distract you."
"What's emulsion?"
"Fuck if I know. It's the film or something. She floats it off the picture and puts the image on something else. I think she uses chopsticks. It's like super finicky."
"It doesn't sound like Helen."
"Oh, she's finicky. Have you seen her casita?"
"No."
"Spotless, dustless. I think she brought a vacuum cleaner from Oakland.
"What time is Leo's party?"
"Eight."
"I'm going to pack. I'll come to Helen's after that."

It was a small bag. Once zipped closed, the casita returned to its neutral, artist-friendly personality. Without the pictures of Kevin and Luke, the room gave no indication of a person living there; it was just a bed, a kitchen, and an armchair, as if I had never been there. That might have been better, I thought. I sat down in the armchair and put my head between my knees. According to the map, it was a eleven-hour drive to where Luke was staying with Kevin's brother. I would pick up Luke, and then we'd drive to Chicago.

"Hi."
"Hey. How's Chicago?"
"There's a lake."
"I heard. I'm leaving tomorrow. I'll drive straight to get Luke."
"That's a very long drive." He said. "I've missed you."
"I've missed you." This was a lie. I hadn't missed him, but I had missed Luke. Maybe that was enough. "Is it too far to drive straight to Chicago?"
"You should stop in St. Louis. I don't think he can spend fifteen hours in the car seat."
"Okay. How's the office?"
"Good. I like my staff."
"Good. Well, I'm due at someone's art demonstration." I could feel my heart frozen, just above my ribs. Did I not love this man anymore, the father of my son, my husband? How was that possible?  
"I'm working on a piece about the CEO of WalMart."
I should ask questions, act interested, and be impressed. "Remember that romper you didn't let me buy? The one with the huge flowers?"
"No."
"That was in a WalMart. I had never been in that store before. We were visiting your parents."
"Molly—"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
I don't love you. I love a man who everyone wants, including me.
"Thanks," I said. Deep breath, "I love you."
"I can't wait to see you and Luke."
I nodded but realized we were speaking on the phone, so he couldn't see me nod.

There was a small group in Helen's casita, gathered around the kitchen table where Helen was delicately lifting the film of a photograph of the Taos Pueblo off its backing paper, dropping the distorted image into a container filled with something oily and liquid. The chopsticks worked well, but I couldn't help wonder if there was an element of cultural dissonance considering Helen's Asian roots. The film undulated across the oily surface; the pueblo morphed into an animal, maybe a horse. Then it reassembled into a house design that suggested tension, something pulling at the image, twisting as if the building had been caught in an earthquake or struck by lightning. Helen's focus was so strong that she seemed alone, totally in her artist zone.

"Cool, eh?"

He was standing close enough that I felt his breath on my neck. His scent of citrus and ginger, the shampoo he used, and his smell were all good things. I knew precisely how Luke smelled, but now I struggled to recall anything physical about Kevin, his hands, face, or gestures.

"It's kind of creepy," I said, leaning back slightly to fit into his body's hollows. Knowing I was leaving, I relaxed.

Helen's partner, a tall Scandinavian who had flown in from New York, served cheese, crackers, and wine. Her lofty and elegant persona was the exact opposite of Helen's, which was familiar and streetwise. Also, Helen was very short, and her girlfriend was tall.

"I am Ingrid," she said, extending a long, pale arm.
"Molly. And this is Scott."
"I know Scott." She faced me, her blue eyes focused on mine. "You must leave your husband. Helen said he's oppressive."
"Helen doesn't know him. He's a really good father."
"To your boy, yes. What if you'd given him a girl?" 
I had a mouthful of cheese. "I think it would be the same."
"Helen said you've published two novels."
"Yes, but his job produces money and a byline. My writing produces bad adjunct teaching English jobs and poorly selling novels."
"And a child."
"Yes."
"You spent nine months making a child."
"Yes. And seventy-two hours of back labor."
Scott laughed. "Well," he said, "that's something."
Ingrid glared at him. "No shit," she said. "As if you'd know. We need to crush the patriarchy."
Maybe I'm a lesbian, I thought.
"Hey, I'm a feminist," Scott smiled at Ingrid, but she didn't melt. "Molly's amazing."
"You're a man," she said. "That's impossible." She leaned towards me. "Stay," she said. "Write."
"I need to get my son," I said. "But thank you."
Ingrid glided away.
"Are you leaving?" Scott handed me a bottle of water.
"Yes. Tomorrow."
"Jesus Christ. Were you going to tell me?"
“I just decided it was time to go back. I want to know if our marriage still exists.”

He recoiled but quickly recovered. I saw the recoil. I thought about all the women breaking out of their bird cages, dollhouses, kitchens, and lives marked by the loneliness of motherhood, the loss of self, and the labeling of ambition as clashing with femininity. Rage was a masculine privilege, and angry women were the punch line of jokes. I resented the idea that if I were leaving Kevin, my instinct would be to seek another male shoulder. "Don't worry," I said. "I'm not leaving him for you."

I finished packing, wrote a page, filled the car with gas, and checked the oil. The light grew dim in the casita, and I thought about Kevin, imagining us reunited in Chicago. After we had just met, I took a trip to Ireland, where my friends from Trinity had rented a house. The house had a phone, but it was unplugged. When I plugged it in, it rang, and Kevin asked me when I would be back in New York. He met me at the airport in a gesture that took my breath away with its romantic intensity. Those two people no longer existed. Now, we were parents and had forgotten the absolute magic of how we felt about each other; that exhilaration was replaced with resentment and, for me, a loss of self.

I took a shower and put on the only dress I had brought, a dusty rose, sleeveless sheath. The heat had barely subsided when I walked across the street to the main house, where I saw fairy lights strung across the backyard and music, lovely vocals about blighted love, and a guitar and violin playing the melody underneath it. The front door was open, and I walked inside. Helen, Ingrid, and Valerie were on the far side of the room, and a few other artists and local friends were scattered around the room and visible in the backyard.

When I came through the door, Valerie said, "Oh my god, Molly! You look like a movie star!"
Helen turned around and let out a long wolf whistle.
"How beautiful she is," Ingrid said.
"Stop it!" I said. "I just washed my hair."
"Go outside," Valerie whispered. "He's waiting for you."
"I thought this was a surprise party."
"He found out. Go."

I went through the backdoor and into the glow of the fairy lights. The music was louder, and the air was warm but silky soft. One of the artists, a composer from North Carolina, walked over to where I was sitting. "Mind if I join you?" he said.
"Of course not."
"Great dress."
He lit a cigarette, and I bummed one needing something to calm myself.
"Here you are." Scott handed me a Perrier and sat down.
The composer started to get up. "Stay," I said. "I'm married, but not to him."
The composer nodded. "Hey, what happens at the art colony stays at the art colony. Catch you later." The composer went back inside.
"You look amazing," Scott said. "Don't leave."
"The car's packed already. I told Luke I was coming."
"What did he say?"
"Nothing. He breathed like a pervert."
"You're already gone." Scott leaned down and kissed me slowly on the lips. "Come dance."

It had been a long time since I'd danced with anyone but a baby. Kevin didn't dance, and after we left London, there were no parties with dancing, just Texans discussing their investments, football, or cars. Inside, the music was a wildly danceable Irish Canadian, fiddle and guitar, and a female voice that grated and then became silk. Scott put his arms around me. "Will I ever see you again?" he whispered.

I felt angry for a second. Didn't he understand that I was the follower in this situation? I had followed my husband to London and Dallas, and now I was in Taos with a man who made my skin tingle. He was pretending it was my choice whether we ever saw each other again. "Probably not."

I whirled out of his arms and back, the fairy lights distorting the room so it seemed like we were moving inside a Tiffany lamp. A few hours before midnight, my carriage would turn back into a pumpkin.

"I want to see you again."
"Come to Chicago."
"Kevin might kill me."
”Stop talking."
He bent me over his arm and kissed my neck like Dracula, a tango dancer, or Gomez in the Addams Family. We came close and then apart again.       
"If only," he whispered.
"Don't," I said. "I can't drive eleven hours thinking 'if only.'"
"I made you a tape for the drive."
"Seriously? What are you? Sixteen?"
"I want you to listen to it all the way to — where are you going again?"
"Missouri."
"Don't leave."

He kissed my eyelids, the side of my face, my ears, and my collarbone. Far in the distance, I could hear the coyotes calling to one another. The sound was a perfect expression of loneliness. The song ended, and I stepped back into the darkness.

—Molly Moynahan