They’re gone.
She scans the crowd and then moves toward the bathroom, snaking through the people at the bocce ball court to take her place in line behind a trio of young women wearing nearly identical outfits, texting on their phones. Colette shakes her head. He’s someone Winnie knows, she decides. The uneasiness she feels is the result of the whiskey and exhaustion; just her mind playing a trick, like it has a few times these last few days, like this morning, when she absentmindedly poured coffee into one of Poppy’s bottles.
She finishes in the bathroom and goes outside to the sidewalk to call Charlie, who tells her Poppy is asleep and he’s working on the latest revisions to his novel. “Take your time,” he says. “Everything’s under control here.” Returning to the table, she sits down beside Francie and sees the phone, tucked next to the sticky mason jars of hot sauce in front of where Token had been sitting.
“Where’s Token?” she asks Francie, who is putting her own phone into her bag.
“He left.”
“You’re kidding. When?”
“A minute ago. It was weird. He rushed out. Said something came up at home.”
“That’s odd. I was outside, calling Charlie. I didn’t see him.” Colette reaches for the phone. “He left this.”
Nell returns, balancing two plates of steaming french fries. “What kind of bar doesn’t serve vinegar with their fries?” she asks, taking her seat. “That would be a federal offense in England.” Nell notices Colette. “Seriously? First Winnie and now you, glued to your phone. Did we come out tonight for the sole purpose of staring at our mobiles?”
“It’s not hers,” Francie says, pushing away the plate of french fries and reaching for her water. “It’s Token’s. He left it.”
“Actually, no. It’s Winnie’s.” Colette flips the phone around, showing them the photo of Midas wallpapering the screen. “There’s a key here, too. Inside the case.”
“Where is she?” Francie asks. “She hasn’t come back from getting that drink.”
Colette swipes the screen, which lights up with a fuzzy video, glowing bright algae-green. “Wait, what is this?” She turns the phone toward Nell and Francie again. “Is that Midas’s bedroom?”
Francie snatches the phone from Colette’s hand. “It’s a video. That’s his crib.”
“Lemme see,” Nell says. Francie hesitates. “Francie, let me see it. I think it’s that app.” Nell licks the salt from her fingers and takes the phone from Francie. “It is. I know the person who developed this.”
“You do?” Francie asks. “How?”
“I worked with him in DC after college, doing data security. It’s a good idea. You can watch the baby monitor on your phone, as long as you’re on Wi-Fi.”
“I’ve heard of this,” Francie says. “Peek-a-Boo! I was thinking of getting it, but it’s like twenty-five bucks or something. For an app? That’s insane.”
“What’s insane is that this is what she’s been looking at,” Nell says. “A grainy video of Midas’s crib.”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with that,” Francie says.
“What’s the point of paying a babysitter if you’re going to watch the baby all night?” Nell asks.
“It’s her first time leaving him. Give her a break,” Francie says. “Really though, where is she?”
“She was talking to some guy,” Colette says. “A ridiculously hot one.”
“I saw that too,” says Francie. “He walked right up to her, when she went to the bar. But that was like fifteen minutes ago.” Francie cranes her neck to scan the crowd. “He was a little forward. Did you see how he was touching her? I’m going to go find her. She probably wants to have her phone with her.”
Francie reaches out her hand, but Nell cradles the phone to her chest. “She’s a single mom, away from her baby for the first time. Let the woman have some fun.”
“Nell,” Colette says, glancing at the glass in front of Nell, wondering how many drinks she’s had. “Don’t be weird. She’s going to want her phone.”
“Just a sec.” Nell swipes the screen.
“What are you doing?” Francie asks.
“Having what I’m sure is a wholly terrible idea.”
“What?” Colette asks.
Nell is silent as she swipes, presses, and then turns off the screen. “Done.”
“What did you do?”
“I deleted the app. The Peek-a-Boo! thing. It’s gone.”
“Nell!” says Francie, covering her mouth.
“Oh, please. Let’s be real. We’re here tonight for her. So she can unwind, get a break. Staring at the baby doesn’t qualify as either of those things.” Nell reaches down to put Winnie’s phone in her purse. “It’s fine. It’s for her own good. It will take her two minutes to reinstall it if she wants to.”
Colette is aware of a growing ache behind her eyes—the music, the crowd building around them on the deck, what Nell just did. She’s ready to go home.
“At least give me her phone,” Francie says. “Her key’s in there. Let me hold it until she comes back to the table.”
“I got it. Relax.” Nell turns her back to Colette and leans toward the women on the other side of her. “What are you guys talking about?”
“My sister,” one says. “She’s thirty weeks and just found out she has a prolapsed uterus. It sucks. She has to get a labial hitch.”
“What on earth is a labial hitch?”
“I know,” Nell says, a little too loudly. “You stick it in your vagina. There’s a hook on the end, for pulling the stroller. Makes grocery shopping and trips to the Laundromat easier.” She rattles the ice cubes in her glass and swallows the last of her drink. “I’ll be right back.” She stands, singing under her breath, and walks toward the bar. “I want more, more, more. More more more.”
10:04 p.m.
“I think she needs less, less, less,” Francie says to Colette, waving away a cloud of smoke from people lighting cigarettes at the deck railing, in front of the No Smoking sign. She waits as long as she can bear before peeking at her phone inside her bag. It’s been twelve minutes, and Lowell still hasn’t responded to the text she sent him. The night is only growing more humid—a heavy humidity unlike anything she experienced in Tennessee—and her head is beginning to throb. Day three without caffeine, and she’s feeling it. She’s been dying for even a sip of coffee, but she can’t do it. Everything she’s been reading says the very best thing to do if your milk supply is decreasing is to give up caffeine. Will’s been so irritable and unhappy these past few days. He’s never been an easy baby—the nurse who answers the nonemergency line at the pediatrician’s office keeps telling Francie it’s a classic case of colic. That it will pass around the fifth week. But Will is seven weeks and two days, and it’s only getting worse. It’s not colic, she’s decided. He’s irritable because she’s run out of milk and is starving him. Certainly she can give up caffeine if it will help.
She decides to text Lowell one more time, knowing he’ll tell her to stop obsessing about the baby and have fun. But she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Will since she left the apartment, sure he’s spent the last two hours screaming inconsolably, the way he sometimes does in the evenings, making himself sick.
Everything okay? Did you get my last few messages? She hits send and feels immediately relieved to see the three dots signaling that Lowell is responding. She waits, clutching her phone.
Do you want the good news or bad?
A blast of fear courses through her body. What happened? She sends the message and waits. Lowell, answer me. What’s the bad news?
Three dots. Nothing. Three dots. The Cardinals suck.
She exhales. Don’t do that please. How’s the baby?
That’s the good news. Sleeping. Took the bottle and passed out.