The Shampoo Effect

Chapter One: Caroline

Chapter One: Caroline

A jelly donut. Caroline doesn't even realize she's stepped on it. She's dragging a suitcase, a backpack thumping on her back, her eyes fixed on the green track numbers blinking over the platform doors. The loudspeaker blares boarding instructions, and she dashes for her train. Her shoe must hit the jelly donut at the perfect angle, because when it bursts, the jelly squirts straight up and hits the crotch of her light jeans. By the time she flops down into her leather seat, she's coated her entire inseam with sticky fuchsia slime.

"Oh my God, what on earth?" Caroline mutters. She rummages for a tissue. No tissues. She asks for a Kleenex or napkin. The woman across the aisle shakes her head. Caroline pulls a receipt from her wallet and starts wiping at the mess.

"Here." A hand appears with a sheaf of paper napkins.

Caroline grabs them, grateful. She asks if the stranger knows which train car has a bathroom. He tells her there aren't bathrooms on the commuter rail. Caroline looks up and finally registers the napkin-bearer. He's her age, with long brown hair tucked behind his ears, a fleece jacket, a laptop bag hanging from his shoulder. She mutters that she'll just have to be covered in this stuff for the next hour and thanks him.

"No problem," the kayaker says, starting to lope off down the aisle. "I get it. I minored in women's studies."

"What?" Caroline startles. But he's already gone.

Moving to Massachusetts is the most impulsive thing Caroline Lash has ever done. She's twenty-eight. She stayed in New York for college, attended Columbia fifty blocks north of her childhood apartment. She majored in English literature, graduated on time, signed a lease for a studio on Third Street, and took a job as an editorial assistant at a publishing house—a position secured by her mother's industry connections. Her mother is a bestselling thriller writer.

For six years Caroline lives the life of a young person in New York publishing. Caroline is a writer herself. She ventures down to Le Dive to drink wine with her friend Nina and eavesdrop on people, writing down all the best bits of dialogue for her short stories. Nina is an actress, constantly auditioning.

Even though Caroline is initially hired because of her famous mother, she turns out to be pretty good at her job. She receives promotion after promotion, soon assisting the editor in chief, then becoming associate editor. But then, at twenty-eight, Caroline surprises even herself. She places one of her short stories in The New Yorker, walks into her boss's office, and gives notice.

Caroline's mother, Gwendolyn Lash, is less than pleased. "Caroline, do you know how many people have read my books? Ten million. Do you know who reads The New Yorker? Nobody."

In a flurry of industry, Caroline applies to every fellowship and writer's residency she can find. When the email arrives from the Palmer Preston Foundation, Caroline screams. She's been awarded a fellowship—eighteen months in a seaside cottage in the tiny village of Greenhead, Massachusetts. The house has rickety wooden steps leading to a pebbly beach, two spartan bedrooms, a dated kitchen, and a desk looking out at the water. It's the perfect place, Caroline decides, to hole up and write, to make a name for herself far beyond the long shadow of her famous mother.

Caroline has been in Greenhead for two weeks when she runs into the kayak-looking guy at the bank. She taps his shoulder and reminds him they met on the train. He turns around, puzzled. She explains about the napkins, the jelly donut. "Cool, cool," he grins, then moves to take his turn at the ATM.

A few days later Caroline is getting out of her car at the drugstore when she sees him drive past. He leans out the window and waves. She buys her shampoo, and when she walks out to the parking lot there's a waxy white bag on the roof of her car. She peers inside, where a jelly donut glistens with sugar.

She settles into a routine in her little Greenhead cottage, waking up early and drinking a gallon of coffee while clacking away on her laptop. In the afternoons Caroline explores. She putters around the little library, visits the former home of Palmer Preston, joins a group of ladies on a tour of the High Street Cemetery.

Caroline wants to visit Greenhead's famous castle on the beach, so she books herself a spot for the "Guest of the Cranes" tour. As she peers around the cavernous foyer waiting for the tour to begin, she's unsurprised to realize the rest of her group is comprised of retirees and European families.

"Welcome to Crane Castle!" a guide cries out. "My name is Martha, and I have been a scullery maid here for the Crane family since 1926...."

"Hey," a voice whispers. Caroline turns and realizes the kayak guy is part of the group. "It's you again."

"Van Whittaker." He sticks out his hand.

"Caroline Lash."

The guide continues. Van whispers jokes about the castle's history. Caroline subtly tries to keep in step with him. She can't be sure, but it seems like he's also trying to walk near her.

When Martha points to a wind indicator, Van murmurs, "A hundred years later a tech bro would invent an app that did the same thing."

As they walk through the Rose Garden, a man asks what those islands are in the distance. Martha demurs. "Van? Do you know?" She turns to him expectantly.

Caroline frowns. How does the maid know her kayak guy?

"Sure." Van walks easily to the front of the group. He identifies various spots along the horizon. Martha presses him to tell the group about nesting sites. "Am I that predictable?" Van laughs.

"What was that?" Caroline whispers.

"Oh, I work here." Van ducks his head down. "I'm an environmental scientist. Our offices are on the third floor."

"Wait." Caroline realizes something. "Did you just do the tour because I was doing it?"

Van covers his face with his hands. "I was just going to say hi, but kind of got sucked in."

"Maybe if you find a break in your busy and important schedule, we could grab a drink this weekend?"

They exchange numbers.

Caroline and Van spend Friday night at the brewery drinking beer, Saturday at Appleton Farms hiking, and Sunday at Van's house having sex in the middle of the day. After they finish, as Van dozes, Caroline wanders the house dressed in his sweatshirt. His place is neat and masculine, every bookshelf full, every windowsill lined with little clues: feathers, geodes, a dried blowfish, a fossil. It's like the home of a very tidy mad scientist.

"Come back to bed," Van calls down.

Van Whittaker is both the same as guys she's dated before and also completely different. He's a passionate environmentalist, a serious person who recycles, believes in taxes. Caroline likes that he's a grown-up. At the same time, he's utterly unselfconscious, never seeming to care what he's wearing or if something he likes is objectively uncool.

Van takes Caroline hiking along the paths in the woods of Castle Hill. He treats the landscape with reverence. Van is always doing little things for her—cleaning mud off her boots, patching her screen door, setting ant traps around her kitchen. He introduces her to his friends, a tight-knit group of townies. He introduces her to his parents after just a few weeks of dating. They sit around the table eating sourdough toast and scrambled eggs, talking about immigration and Ukraine and sustainable fisheries. These are people she recognizes.

When her own parents announce their intention to visit Greenhead, Caroline nearly tells Van to avoid them. But Van excels at parental charm. He reads several of Gwendolyn's novels and asks thoughtful questions. He takes Gregory fishing. Caroline watches her mother succumb to Van's quiet appeal.

The morning Van tells Caroline about the baby is a bad one. It's a Tuesday, and Caroline is still in her pajamas when Van knocks on the cottage door. He looks exhausted.

"Caroline," he starts. "I have to tell you some news."

Van's friend Bailey is pregnant. Bailey, from his group, the beautiful blond. Bailey, who Van slept with in January, before he met Caroline. It didn't mean anything. It's not like with her.

"Is she keeping it?" Caroline asks.

They talked about it last night. Van told Bailey it was her decision, but she's thirty-four and all her friends have kids. She's excited.

"Are you excited?" Caroline asks slowly.

"Not yet," Van says honestly. "But I think I can be once the surprise wears off."

Caroline feels like her heart is being squeezed in a vise. "So, you're breaking up with me."

"No." Van gets up and comes to hug her. Bailey is a good friend, she's going to be a great mother, but he wants to be with Caroline. And Bailey wants to be alone.

"But does she?" Caroline asks. "I don't want to be in the middle."

"I just think this is going to end in tears, Van," she says.

"It doesn't have to end," he pleads.

Caroline

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Chapter Two: Bailey

Chapter Two: Bailey

Bailey Newmarch is pregnant, and it's all anyone can talk about—except for the one question they really want to ask: how she, at thirty-four, finds herself pregnant by another woman's boyfriend. She's been sleeping with Vanny Whittaker since high school: backseats of cars, vacant hotel rooms, the janitor's closet. They both moved home in their twenties and picked up where they left off. And now, apparently, friends who mixed their DNA to create a human.

Pavilion Beach

On Pavilion Beach, Bailey sits with Fran and Augusta, watching their children torment hermit crabs. Augusta cracks open pistachios and tells Bailey about the weird things people said to her when she was pregnant. Fran chimes in with RJ's father suggesting she put vaginal discharge on the baby's head for microbes. They riff on the word "discharge." But the whole situation is awkward: Bailey is pretty sure Vanny is in love with her, that if she asked for a ring he'd drop everything. But he's also just… Vanny. Transparent. Knowable. She's known him since she was eleven. How can you fall in love with a guy like that? She's met his girlfriend a few times—seems fine, probably never shaves above the knees, always recommending obscure podcasts, and once ran over a rhododendron without noticing.

Fran's son pulls down his swimsuit to pee in the ocean, and the women joke about trading bodies with men for a day.

The Three Friends

Bailey thinks of herself, Augusta, and Fran as three different flavors in a variety pack. They've been friends since they were eight. They don't schedule get-togethers; they text "Where are you right now." Bailey has spent four summers here, watching Fran's and Augusta's kids, reading paperbacks, feeling like a relic of past summers—women tending children while men work.

Augusta asks if Van is coming to any doctor's appointments. Bailey hasn't asked. The idea of Vanny sitting awkwardly in a chair while she takes off her shirt—it's too bizarre. Augusta presses: birthing classes? Delivery? Bailey hasn't thought that far ahead. She shrugs and stretches in her beach chair.

She looks out at the channel, remembering nights on the houseboats in college. One night she and Vanny got separated, and he shouted "I'm coming for you, Bailey!" and swam to her boat.

Augusta's baby fusses. Bailey retrieves her, holds the squirming body awkwardly, doesn't like holding newborns. She hands the baby over, watches Augusta nurse while sipping wine and carrying on a conversation.

The children stagger up, sandy and pink. London's little brother asks if Bailey is having a baby. London asks: "You're the mommy but Uncle Van can't be the daddy because he likes Caroline better than you?" Fran is horrified, but Bailey laughs easily. "Van is the daddy. But I'm the mommy and mommies rule the world, right?" The boys agree solemnly.

Infant CPR

Bailey doesn't want Van's last name for the baby, doesn't want him at the obstetrician, but when she signs up for infant CPR she figures he might as well come. Vanny is the type who genuinely enjoys being useful. He arrives ten minutes late.

They go around the room. A woman taking a day-care job, a couple moving to remote Mali, a new mother terrified of choking. The instructor says never give an infant a whole grape or hot dog. Vanny writes "NO GRAPES OR HOT DOGS" in a notebook. Bailey snickers.

When they practice back slaps and chest compressions, the instructor points to a bin of dolls. Vanny picks the mangiest one—dirty, missing a leg. "I bet nobody picks this one," he says. The instructor says to use "Stayin' Alive" or another song at the right tempo. Vanny writes down "Stayin' Alive" with the apostrophe. He chooses "Sweet Home Alabama" and sings quietly. When it's Bailey's turn, she quietly sings Cardi B's "WAP" while doing compressions. The rhythm is perfect. Vanny nods and writes "WAP" in his notebook.

The instructor moves on to drowning, heart abnormalities, poisoning. They talk about loose blankets, suffocation. The whole nighttime ritual becomes menacing. Bailey shudders.

She gets a handout and adds it to her to-do list: shots for her parents, disability insurance, maternity leave, cover outlets, install the car seat. It's all so intimidating, so high stakes, and nobody talked about it. She feels tricked. Tears spring to her eyes.

A hand on the back of her neck—Vanny, rubbing the tense muscles. "You good?" She swipes at her eyes. She has Vanny. He'll help. Install the car seat. Do the light switches. She gives a small smile. "I'm just feeling really sad about leaving this doll here." "See? I told you I picked a good one." He takes her bag, wraps an arm around her, walks her to the parking lot.

Budweiser Manor

Bailey dreaded telling her parents, but they are bizarrely sanguine. Bailey comes from a deeply cheesy family. Her father Jay is a beer distributor for Anheuser-Busch, met her mother Clara at a party in 1975, fell crazily in love. They married big, bought an old church on Heartbreak Road, converted it. As Jay was promoted, he poured money into renovations. The house was the one all the girls flocked to for playdates.

In high school, Bailey saw her family as over the top and tacky. She named the house "Budweiser Manor," rolled her eyes at the fifteen-foot Christmas tree with glass angels, her sisters' matching BMWs, her mother's weekly manicure, her father's tanning salon "CEO glow."

Two years ago, her parents moved to a retirement community. They wanted to bring the swans, but the community board said no. "Bird racist," Clara complained. Until they figure out how to get the swans in, Bailey agreed to live in her childhood home. She gave up her lease on the river and returned to Heartbreak Road, the reluctant grand dame of Budweiser Manor.

The Name

Her parents are supportive about the pregnancy, but the baby's name drives her mother crazy. "I don't understand why you won't just give the baby Vanny's last name." "Because it's my baby, Mom." Her father tries: if she doesn't give him the last name, he'll think she doesn't want to get married. "That is correct. I don't want to get married." Her mother insists a lot can change when the baby arrives. They have this conversation about three times a week, everyone ignoring that Van has a girlfriend.

Bailey guesses she got pregnant sometime after the holidays. One night they made Mexican Manhattans and Fran fell asleep dressed. The kids were with grandparents, so Bailey and Vanny had sex in London's bed—Buzz Lightyear sheets. Bailey felt guilty afterward and threw the sheets in the washing machine. Then in February, a sharp pinch, a spot in her underwear. No real period. Weeks later, she called Van with a problem: the swans in her pond wouldn't eat.

The swans, Hissy and Prissy, are total assholes—flap wings, chase smaller birds, try to bite anyone who refills their water. Despite all that, Bailey has a real soft spot for them. They're both female swans—pens—bought from a breeder for five hundred bucks apiece. The swans have pinioned wings, so they can't fly away. For years she's watched her father care for them. This year she's done it all the same herself.

When spring comes and the ice on the pond turns to mud, Bailey opens the barn doors and Hissy and Prissy push past her like they're breaking out of jail. They waddle across the grass squawking happily, splash down past the reeds, and spin in dizzy circles on the water. But then, one Sunday, they move up onto the little island to lay their eggs—and just stay there. Every morning Bailey stomps down in her rubber boots to check on them. It's weird, but they won't get back in the water. They just sit there on the little island, and Bailey realizes, with a jolt of horror, what that means.

The pens lay clutches of six or ten eggs. Since the vet proved they're both lady birds, the eggs aren't fertilized. Usually after a few days the swans feel something in the eggs that makes them understand they won't hatch, and they move on. But once in a while, they seem convinced there are chicks inside. They sit on the eggs waiting for them to hatch week after week. The only way to save them is to take away their eggs. If you wait too long, the pens will die, starving to death as they protect their hopeless eggs.

When Vanny rattles up in his Subaru Outback and pulls a lacrosse helmet and gloves out of the trunk, Bailey feels like she's watching Indiana Jones arrive with his whip. Together they perform the terrible task: wading out to the island, Bailey menacing the pens with a long broom, pushing them off the nest with the sharp bristles, Vanny darting in to snatch up the eggs as the sw

Chapter Three: Augusta

Augusta stands in the garage, the blue lace underwear dangling from her fingers. The Cosabella tag reads size medium. She knows this isn't hers, isn't Zoey's, isn't anyone she can reasonably explain. She ties the underwear inside a garbage bag, clamps the lid shut, and goes inside to wash her hands.

In the bedroom, Colin is already asleep, sprawled across the sheets with his arm covering his face. Augusta clicks off the lamp. She checks on the kids—Jane and Charlie curled up together in Charlie's room, the gummy bear nightlight burning bright, Beatrix asleep in her crib with her bum stuck up in the air like a tiny glowworm. Then she goes back downstairs, pours herself a glass of sparkling water, and sits at the kitchen island scrolling anxiously on her phone.

She considers texting Bailey or Fran about the underwear, but she knows they'll think she's being insane. They'll ask why she doesn't simply ask Colin. Augusta can't explain it, but she doesn't want to. Who forgets their underwear? She has never once forgotten to wear underwear in her life. Someone must have left them on purpose. Someone wanted her to find them.

But why?

It's late, but Augusta is wired, miles from sleep. She cleans the kitchen, then attacks the drawers of children's cups, matching rubber lids to plastic bottoms, throwing away the broken ones. She moves on to the front hall closet, a place of perpetual irritation.

Later, at 2 AM, she is in the guest room, sitting on the bed with a printer she is trying to fix. She has already cleaned the baseboards with a toothbrush and organized the linen closet. When she hears footsteps in the hall, she looks up. Colin stands in the doorway, squinting in the dark.

"Augusta? What are you doing?"

"Couldn't sleep." She doesn't look at him.

"Babe, come to bed."

"I will in a minute."

He stands there for a long moment. She can feel him watching her. "Augusta, what's wrong?"

She finally looks up. She wants to ask him. She wants to hold up the imaginary underwear and demand an explanation. But what if he has one? What if he has a perfectly reasonable answer, something innocent, and she has just spent the last two hours spiraling over nothing? What if he doesn't have an answer?

"Nothing," she says. "I'm just not tired."

Colin doesn't push. He turns and shuffles back to the bedroom. Augusta listens to his footsteps fade. She sits in the dark, the printer still unconnected, and stares at the wall. She knows that blue lace underwear is not hers. She knows she will not sleep tonight. She knows that whatever she finds out, she will have to find it out herself.

Augusta sorts through the closet at two in the morning, working through dozens of shoes—some disgusting with use, others nearly pristine but rejected by her children for reasons both sundry and petty: laces Jane refuses to tie, soles that feel too hard, buckles too fiddly, a loathsome pair that sheds glitter with every wearing. She collects the unworn shoes in a shopping bag for donation, places the slightly worn pairs Jane has outgrown into a box to save for Beatrix, and arranges what remains neatly onto the shelves.

Her mind drifts as she works through ski jackets and mittens, fleece vests and stroller buntings, bits of Velcro and nylon that look expensive but whose provenance she can't place. She remembers buying this house right after their engagement. They had barely started looking when it came on the market, and the moment she walked in, she felt it was home. Neither she nor Colin was impulsive by nature. Colin is the kind of guy who buys fully refundable airline tickets, who makes pro and con lists before taking a new job. But he saw how much she loved the house and they made the offer. He let her pick all the paint colors, choose the new kitchen countertops and cabinets; his only request was a corner of the basement where he could play guitar.

There is something both sweet and sort of tragic about his little setup. He keeps his books down there on a shelf—rock 'n' roll memoirs by Keith Richards, Bruce Springsteen, and Flea. He has framed posters and concert stubs on the wall. He keeps his guitar on a stand made of steel and teak, and most nights after the kids are asleep, he goes down and drinks a Scotch and plays for an hour or two before bed. Augusta has always loved that about him. He took a job in finance after college, earned his MBA, now works at a fund in Boston, but he has a creative side too. She knows he isn't passionate about his job—what kid dreams of attending investor meetings—but he still has this little place where he can be himself. She has always thought that was lovely.

But what if it's more complicated than that? What if the very thing she has admired for so long—her husband's ability to play his role 90 percent of the time and his passion the other 10—is actually a sign that he isn't happy? What if his corner of the basement is the beginning of a bigger escape? Augusta thinks of her own father, his late nights at the office, his ignominious exit from their family.

At four in the morning, Augusta finishes with the closet and sits on the floor in the hallway, her back against the wall. This is it. This is her long, dark night of the soul. And she is spending it organizing snow pants and sun hats.

No. She feels it so powerfully she almost says it aloud. She will not quietly swallow it. She will not turn a blind eye.

Augusta stands and goes out to the garage. She pulls the underwear from the trash. She shakes them out and brings them back to the living room, where she shoves them between the cushions, exactly where she found them.

Chapter Four: Caroline

Caroline Lash screams when a greenhead fly bites her ankle. Van explains the flies have scissorlike jaws that masticate the skin. He carries her into the shallows to wash the wound. The flies drive tourists away, which is why everyone can afford to live in this seaside village. Van and his friends escape to a cabin in Boothbay, Maine, every greenhead season. He invites Caroline along. She hesitates but agrees.

She texts Nina about the trip, asking if Bailey will be there. Yes. Caroline complains that pregnant people are insufferable. Nina says it's an unpopular opinion.

Van picks Caroline up on Friday. She asks about the cabin—still traumatized by a past trip where she had to share a hotel room with her ex-boyfriend's family. Van says the cabin has four bedrooms. During the drive, he explains he takes good care of his car because of fossil fuel guilt. Caroline has barely driven until moving to Greenhead.

When they arrive, four cars are already there. Van leaves the bags and heads around the back. Caroline checks her hair, practices a smile, and follows.

The property is lovely. Van's grandmother, a white-haired woman near ninety, strides up from the dock carrying an oar and fishing rod. She calls Van "Vanny" and ignores Caroline entirely. Down on the dock, Augusta and Bailey are lying out in swimsuits. Everyone is tanned and happy. A little black dog, Lady, gets territorial, scrabbling on Caroline and leaving wet paw prints. RJ laughs, saying the dog hates all Van's girlfriends.

The friends hug Caroline halfheartedly. Bailey looks like a fertility goddess in a green bikini. Augusta says it'll be fun to have someone new, but Caroline hears a warning that she has intruded on a sacred ritual. Van quietly offers to unpack instead, but Caroline pastes on a grin and says "YOLO." She wobbles on a paddleboard as Van shows her the basics. At the dock, Lady jumps on her, knocking her into the water. She kicks the dog off and sees Van's grandmother on the lawn frowning at her.

She texts Nina about the incident. Nina offers to Uber up, but Caroline says she'll make Van's friends love her.

Dinner is already on the table. Van's grandmother announces she organized supper but the kids will handle their own meals tomorrow. She is drinking a Gibson, terrifying Caroline. They discuss environmental disasters affecting the property. Van's grandmother asks Bailey about the baby, then turns to Caroline. When Caroline says she's a writer from New York, the grandmother's "How exciting" sounds like she's called Caroline a lifestyle influencer.

After the grandmother retreats, they do martini shots and play a game. The game moves quickly; couples know each other too well. Caroline drinks even though it's not her turn. Augusta wins the first round. By the third round everyone is too drunk. Colin and RJ announce they're going to a bar, riding bikes despite being hammered. Augusta is upset.

Caroline brushes her teeth at the kitchen sink, then joins Van on the sleeping porch. They sleep in separate single beds. She feels lonely. She hears knocking. She creeps to the kitchen door window and sees no one. The knocking comes from inside. She turns the corner and finds Augusta tapping on Eben's door. Augusta sees her, shakes her head once, and turns away. Caroline retreats, realizing something is off between Augusta and her brother.

The sun hits the sleeping porch at six in the morning. Caroline wakes headachy and hungover. She desperately needs to pee. The old bathroom is a narrow closet. She pees quietly, but the toilet flushes with a thunderous shudder. Lady scratches at the door. Caroline sneaks back to the sleeping porch.

"Climb in," Van croaks from his bed. Caroline obliges, snuggling into his neck. He slips his hand into her pajama top and runs his fingers along her ribs. He suggests they drive into town, just the two of them, for a big breakfast. Caroline's heart soars. She has never loved him more.

But the memory of how she got here surfaces like a bruise. Back in New York, when she was promoted to associate editor, her boss gave her a mandate: Take a literary agent out to lunch every day until you find a new writer. But always there was the elephant in the room: her famous mother, Gwendolyn Lash. When Caroline wined and dined agents, they pumped her for information about Gwendolyn.

Then she asked Ned Clark to lunch. He was funny, smiled at her like they shared a secret, never once mentioned her mother. He made her nervous. When he emailed asking for drinks, she said yes. He didn't try to kiss her. Then his agency had a holiday party. Ned caught her at the door, steered her around the room, introduced her like she was an important client. At the coat check, he whispered in her ear, asking if he could come to her apartment.

They took a taxi. He kissed her gently, led her to bed. She almost came. They fell asleep. But when she woke at three in the morning, Ned was gone—snuck out like a thief. She expected a text. Nothing. On the third day, her mother called and asked if she'd ever met a Ned Clark. When Caroline read that her mother had left her longtime agent for Ned Clark's agency, Caroline called him. He didn't pick up. She emailed, calling him an asshole. He didn't answer.

After breakfast, everyone wants to kayak the inlet. Caroline needs alone time, so she spreads a towel on the dock and reads. She fantasizes about the interviews she'll give when her own first book comes out.

That night they grill chicken and corn. Everyone has strong opinions on how corn is best cooked. After dinner the others play poker, but Caroline retreats to bed with her laptop to write.

In the morning, she wakes to sun. Padding toward the kitchen, she sees something on the floor and yelps. RJ says Lady had an accident, grabs a paper towel, scoops it up, and flushes it down the toilet. Caroline asks doubtfully if you're supposed to flush paper towels. "Strong Maine pipes," RJ shrugs. He is wrong. The toilet clogs irrevocably. Van calls a plumber who can't come until tomorrow. Van offers to drive the girls to another house to borrow a bathroom, but Caroline refuses. She borrows Van's keys, drives to the coffee shop in town, and buys fancy coffees for everyone.

The Subaru is harder to drive than her own car. When she tries to park, Lady runs barking out the front door. Caroline means to stomp the brake, but instead hits the gas. The car launches backward with a terrible thump. She has struck a tree. The entire group comes out. Van's grandmother runs her hand along the trunk of the tree, shaking her head. The tree is fifty years old. It won't die, but it is "permanently disfigured."

After an appropriate mourning time, Eben convinces everyone to go on a sail. Caroline and Van volunteer to stay back. Van wants to build a chicken-wire compost bin. Caroline agrees to help. She apologizes again as they work.

"It's a dent," Van says. "They can hammer it out in an hour."

"I bet Bailey never dented your car," she says quietly.

"What does Bailey have to do with this?"

"I just feel like everyone has been comparing us all weekend."

Van stops working and puts his arms around her. "Nobody cares who Lady likes better. What matters is who I like."

"It's just that I am bad at paddleboarding. And your grandmother hates me. And Bailey's so beautiful. She knows things about you I don't."

"Caroline. Bailey is great, I'm glad she's my friend, but it's not romantic between us. It's not a deep connection."

"Remember, I don't want to be in the middle."

"There is no middle. It's you and me."

She leans in and kisses him. She believes him.

Did you survive the ritual new-girlfriend hazing by his friends? asks Nina.

Yeah, it was chill

But seriously, I really don't think I have to worry about Bailey. I just don't see her and Van getting back together.

Three little dots appear and disappear as Nina starts and stops typing her reply. After a few minutes, Nina stops writing. The dots vanish entirely. And Caroline knows Nina doesn't believe her.