One of the side effects of the drug that Dr. Singer prescribed me is nausea. Severe nausea, the rolling, violent kind like seasickness, only worse because it never goes away. Paired with ringing in my ears and a disturbing sensation of dizziness, the medication renders me useless.

After six days of puking my guts out and stumbling around in a fog, I flush the rest of the pills down the toilet. I call Dr. Singer to get a different prescription and am told by his secretary that he’s gone on vacation and won’t be back for two weeks.

So much for him being available for me to talk to anytime.

Dr. Anders doesn’t have a spot open for another few days, so in the interim, my leaking mental dinghy is adrift in shark-infested waters.

I know I’m unwell. I’m dangerously obsessed with Theo, and his continued absence only makes it worse. I drive by his house at all hours, hoping he’ll be there, but he never is. I take a trip out to Melville and find the facility he checked himself into, then sit in the car and stare at the building until a security guard approaches warily, wanting to know what I’m doing.

I tell him I don’t know, because I honestly don’t.

I write email after email to Theo, none of them sent. I save them in the drafts folder, unwilling to delete them, as if somehow that might make things worse.

All the while, Coop and his workers are busy transforming the Buttercup from ugly duckling into beautiful swan, using Theo’s plans as their guide.

The master bedroom—a spectacular suite that makes me swoon, it’s so gorgeous—is finished in record-setting time. The roof and plaster repair work are coming along at a remarkable clip. Every day, I’m amazed by the progress, and if I hear a familiar footstep downstairs in the middle of the night, I know it’s only my mind playing tricks on me, because Theo never appears.

Then, on Halloween, he finally does.

* * *

“It’s a Halloween party, Megan. That means you’re supposed to wear a costume, not the clothes you wear every other day of the week!”

Suzanne has her hands propped on her hips. She’s looking me up and down with an expression of disgust. It’s Tuesday night, I’ve just arrived at her house, and we’re supposed to be on our way to Booger’s for their annual Spooktacular event, but I’m not sure Suzanne is going to let me out of her house without donning some ridiculous getup like the one she’s wearing.

“I refuse to be seen in public looking like a roll of toilet paper, Suzanne.”

Aghast, she looks down at herself. “I’m a mystical mummy!”

“Mystical? That explains all the glitter in your cleavage.”

“Seriously, I can’t let you out like that.” She waves a hand at my jeans and Bowie T-shirt, grimacing like I’m the one with the tragic fashion sense.

“Let’s tell people I’m a roadie. If you have a portable amp handy, I could carry that as a prop.”

Her eye roll is exaggerated. “Oh, right. Let me go grab my portable amp, I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.”

“It could be underneath that wig.”

The blonde bouffant wig perched on her head is as big as a ten-gallon cowboy hat and decorated with shredded bits of the same white gauze she’s wrapped around her body. The gauze is supposed to resemble the linen bandages used to dress mummies, but the overall effect is that Suzanne recently suffered an unfortunate accident at a toilet paper factory.

“Don’t you diss my wig. This thing cost a fortune!” She pats the towering wall of synthetic fiber, making it jiggle. Then her eyes go round, and she shouts, “Oh!”

With that, she runs down the hallway toward her bedroom, trailing bits of gauze in her wake.

I look at De Niro, Pacino, and Stallone, lounging on the sofa and regarding me with catlike disdain. “Don’t worry, boys. Mommy’s the normal one here.”

In moments, Suzanne reappears from her bedroom holding a wig so purple, it glows. She tosses it at me, forcing me to catch it. “Put that on.”

I curl my lip. “This color doesn’t occur in nature.”

“I’ll tell you what else doesn’t occur in nature—these shoes!” She sticks out a leg, clad in a six-inch spike-heel sandal with leather straps that crisscross the length of her calf from ankle to knee. The shoes are meant to look Egyptian, but they bear a striking resemblance to dominatrix wear. Mistress Charmin the mystical mummy.

“So wear flats,” I suggest, making her retch.

“Flats! Ha! The day I wear flats is the day I’ve given up all hope of attracting a man!”

“Speaking of men,” I say, aiming for a casual tone, “do you think Coop will be at Booger’s tonight?”

Suzanne is busily digging through her handbag. She produces a lipstick and compact, then proceeds to paint her lips a very unmummy shade of scarlet red. “Coop? I dunno. Maybe.”

“I mean…wouldn’t you like to see him there?”

She looks away from her compact and narrows her eyes at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Considering how peeved I was when she tried to set me up with Doug, the height-challenged building inspector, I have to tread carefully or risk being labeled a hypocrite. “Nothing. Only…”

Suzanne drops the compact and lipstick back into her bag, then turns to me with her arms folded. “Only what?”

She’s suspicious already. I might as well spit it out. “Only I’m sure he’d love to see you there.”

It takes a minute for her to process that, then she rears back like I’ve slapped her across the face. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Why is that ridiculous?”

“Preston Cooper is the last man on earth who’d be interested in a girl like me, that’s why! He likes sweet girls”—she simpers, batting her lashes—“homebodies who are duller than dirt who no one ever gossips about because they never do anything interesting! Girls like his wife!”

“Ex-wife.”

“Put on the damn wig.”

She’s annoyed by the turn in the conversation, so I let it go. “Who else will be at this shindig?”

“If you’re worried about the church ladies who’ve been talking about you, yes, most of them will be there. So will pretty much everyone else in this town. Booger’s annual Spooktacular is second only to the Christmas boat parade in popularity. Which is why you need a costume!”

I jam the wig on my head, make a few adjustments so all the purple strands are out of my eyes, and deadpan, “Ta-da. Costume.”

“You’re the worst.” She slings her handbag over her gauzy shoulder and heads for the door. “Let’s get outta here before the cats decide I’m a scratching post and shred me.”

Once in the car, Suzanne spends so much time staring at my profile, I start to get weirded out. “What’re you looking at?”

“I haven’t seen you since church. You’ve lost weight.”

“Maybe I should’ve gone as the mummy,” I mutter, taking a corner too fast.

“Have you been sick?”

“Jesus, do I look that bad?”

“No, you actually look great—bitch—just thinner. And sort of…haunted.”

I drag in a breath and grip the steering wheel harder. “I went on Lexapro for a few days, but it made me so sick, I stopped taking it. I couldn’t keep anything down.”

“Megan, I told you you’re not crazy.” Her tone is the same one my mother used right before I got a spanking as a kid.

“My shrink might disagree.”

“Fuck him!”

“He’s not my type.”

“Quit being sarcastic, this is serious! Just because you’re going through a rough patch doesn’t mean you need to take drugs!”

“Those drugs can save people’s lives, Suzanne.”

“They can also end them!” she shoots back hotly. “You ever see the list of horrible side effects for those antidepressants? Uncontrollable thoughts of suicide is right at the top!”

I assume this is her experience with her institutionalized Uncle Roy talking, but I’m too irritated to get into it. People who’ve never had depression don’t have a clue what it’s like. I can’t count how many times I’ve been told to “just get over it” or “focus on the positive” by well-meaning friends.

But then she says something that stops my irritation dead in its tracks.

“I mean, hell, if my boyfriend locked himself away in a psych ward, I’d be upset too, but you wouldn’t see me medicating my damn…self…” She trails off into silence, staring at me with wide eyes.

“How do you know Theo locked himself away in a psych ward?”

“Um…”

Realization punches me in the solar plexus. “Oh my God. Everyone in Seaside knows where Theo is, don’t they?”

She looks apologetic, scrunching up her shoulders. “Maybe?”

I shout, “How?”

“Well, honey—now don’t get upset—Leanne’s cousin’s hairdresser, Maxine, has a stepbrother who’s up at Acadia right now, having a little rest after his brain got knocked askew from spending one too many years balls-deep in cocaine. Maxine went to visit the stepbrother last week and saw Theo wandering around the grounds. Said he looked really out of it. So she told all her clients at the salon, one of whom was Leanne’s cousin, and the cousin told Leanne, and Leanne—who’s a major flaptrap, by the way, don’t ever trust that woman with a secret—told her book club and her knitting circle, and—”

“I got it!” I holler, red-faced. I don’t know who any of those people are, but I know how the gossip line works, and how fast a juicy bit of news burns through it.

“Sorry. I know it sucks. If it’s any consolation, nobody knows about you two.”

I groan. “I’m not worried about me—I’m worried about him! What will this do to his business? Will people treat him differently? How’s he going to feel, knowing everyone’s judging him and talking behind his back?”

“Probably the same way he’s felt for the last few years while they’ve been doing it.”

I groan again, miserable at the thought of Theo being subjected to stares and whispers.

Suzanne pats my arm. “Believe it or not, everyone’s pulling for him. Maybe this will turn out to be a good thing. He’s needed to get help for a long time.”

I stew in silence for several minutes, until Suzanne asks tentatively, “So, um, did you ever go to his house?”

I exhale in a gust. “God, I feel like such a jerk for doing that. I hope he doesn’t have security cameras. The last thing the poor man needs is the woman he’s having random booty calls with creeping around his property like a total lunatic.”

I fail to mention all the drive-bys, but Suzanne makes me feel bad enough for the one visit I admit to by saying, “Yeah. Let’s hope he’s never seen the movie Fatal Attraction.”

I say sourly, “Thanks.”

“About those booty calls—”

“No.”

“No, you’re not talking about them, or no, there haven’t been any more than the two you weren’t talking about in the first place?”

“Both.”

She sighs. “Bummer.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Any idea when you’ll see him again?”

“No.”

“What does he say about it when you ask him?”

“I don’t ask him. He isn’t responding to emails, and his phone is turned off. Plus, I sort of set up this don’t ask, don’t tell situation regarding our relationship.” When she stares at me cockeyed, it’s my turn to sigh. “These things always sound better inside my head than they do out loud.”

Suzanne is beginning to look disturbed. “So…what? You just have to wait for him to show up?”

“Basically.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, we can’t have that! You’re not some ditzy Disney princess, wasting all your pretty years pining for your knight in shining denim!” She thinks for a moment. “What if you sent him a letter at Acadia?”

“Is that what you’d do?”

She scoffs. “Oh hell, no, honey, I’d already have broken into the damn place and chewed through his underwear.”

“Of course you would.” I pull into the parking lot at Booger’s, stop in front of a valet stand, and we head inside.

Booger’s is packed. It’s wall-to-wall zombies and witches, ghosts and pirates, fairies and vampires. A few Star Wars and Marvel comics characters round out the mix. Everyone is laughing and mingling, crowding the dance floor, guzzling drinks. Suzanne drags me through the crush to a table on the far side of the room, near the temporary bar that’s been erected in one corner to handle the overflow of guests. It’s manned by a guy dressed as the Joker in a bright purple suit. I want to give him my wig.

I also want to leave.

It’s too packed, too loud, and my social anxiety is kicking in with a vengeance. Why the hell did I agree to this? I hate parties.

“Oh no,” says Suzanne, examining my expression. “You’re not going anywhere, girlfriend. Sit your ass down in that chair and pretend to enjoy yourself. I’m gonna get a drink—what do you want?”

“Ginger ale.”

She pushes me into a chair and heads off to the Joker, trailing wisps of gauze like snow. The instant she leaves, a man lowers himself into the chair opposite mine.

It’s Craig.

He’s the only other person in the place in normal clothes, in his case, tan slacks and a black cashmere sweater. His hair is perfect. His smile is perfect. His eyes are as hungry as a crocodile’s.

I grit my teeth in disbelief at how much the universe loves to fuck with me. “What’re you doing here?”

“You’ve been avoiding my calls.”

“So true. Funny how I wouldn’t want to talk to a lying, philandering dick.”

If he’s surprised by my hostility, he doesn’t show it. “How am I a liar?”

“Go away.”

“Or a philanderer?”

“Are you hearing impaired? I said go away.”

A muscle flexes in his jaw. “At least give me the courtesy of an explanation. When I dropped you at your place after we had dinner, I thought everything was great. I thought we had a real connection.”

There’s a sneer in my laugh that makes his eyes darken. “You’re good, I’ll give you that. All your talk of ‘I don’t play games’ and ‘You’ll always know where you stand with me.’ Women must eat that shit up. I mean, I thought it sounded genuine.”

I pause, staring at him with what I hope is pure disgust on my face. “I’m sure Colleen thinks so too. Tell me, how long did it take you to call her after you dropped me at my front door? Ten seconds? Twenty?”

After a beat, he leans back in his chair, crosses his legs, folds his hands in his lap, and smiles. “You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”

He thinks I’m jealous? The ego on this idiot. He’s lucky there isn’t any cutlery on the table, because he’d have a fork embedded in his forehead right about now.

I say with freezing calm, “Time to fuck off, Craig. And if you don’t want me telling your girlfriend Colleen what a giant piece of shit you are, make it quick.”

“She isn’t my girlfriend.”

“If you don’t get out of my face within five seconds, I’ll find something to stab you with.”

His smile grows indulgent, like he’s dealing with a cute, fussing baby. “Don’t be silly. You’ll do no such thing.”

I lean in on my elbows, rest my chin on my hands, and smile back at him with all my teeth showing. “Haven’t you heard, Craig? I’m. Fucking. Nuts.”

When he blinks, I know I’ve finally broken through.

“Oh, Craig! Hi! Fancy seeing you here!” Suzanne stands at the side of the table, holding two drinks and gazing at Craig with all the warmth of an iceberg.

I haven’t told her about my talk with Colleen at the pharmacy, so her reaction is all about his brush-off when the three of us had dinner. I’ve always liked a woman who can hold a grudge.

“Hello, Suzanne,” he says smoothly, rising. “How nice to see you again. You look beautiful.” He ogles her cleavage, not bothering to be the tiniest bit discreet about it.

Jesus Christ. The man is single-handedly eroding my faith in humankind.

“I know,” says Suzanne flatly, and pushes past him to sit down.

Then the universe decides it hasn’t had nearly enough fun for the evening and produces Colleen.

She’s wearing a tight black Catwoman costume and looks fantastic. Nary a baby bump in sight. “Hi, ladies,” she says, smiling. She glances at Craig, standing there with his plastic grin fixed on his face. “Have you met Craig?”

Suzanne and I both say, “Yep!” and glare at him.

As Colleen’s face registers confusion at all the odd tension in the air, the music changes. What was an upbeat pop number fades into the slow, sultry voice of Etta James, singing her signature blues love song, “At Last.”

Closing my eyes, I soak in the song’s passionate vocals and sweeping violins. I pull the stupid purple wig off and drop my head into my hands, wishing I were any place else on earth so I could burst into tears.

“Sweetie,” says Suzanne, touching my hand. “What’s wrong?”

“This song,” I say, my voice breaking.

“What about it?”

I start to chuckle in small, agonized gasps that are closer to sobs than laughter. “It was our song. Mine and Cass’s, from the time it was playing on the radio when he gave me a promise ring when we were fifteen, to our first dance at our wedding reception. Every time it came on, he’d tell me he loved me.”

I love you, sweet pea. I’ll love you till the end of time.

I hear his voice exactly as if he’s standing right beside me. Tears, hot and burning, quickly form behind my eyes. Shit—I’m going to cry. I’ve got to get out of this room before I have a meltdown.

But instead of running away when I open my eyes, I freeze, the impulse to flee retracting in one hard, reflexive movement, like a hand clenching to a fist.

Across the dance floor, half-hidden in the shadows of a doorway, stands Theo.

He’s staring right at me.

He’s smiling.