Hillary

Hillary’s new life had begun quietly. Five months of cleaner food, yoga, vitamins, that green seaweed drink she insisted tasted better than it looked. Three nights a week at the little lifespa, then weekend retreats with Paul, the guru who apparently understood things you didn’t. You couldn’t complain about the results. Hillary seemed lighter somehow, more spontaneous, more willing to surprise you. She credited everything to the new lifestyle. “Paul says most people spend their whole lives afraid of what they actually want.” You looked at her. “Who’s Paul?” She laughed softly. “My teacher.” You filed that away. Then, one Thursday, Hillary convinced Stacy to come along. They left together, talking over each other as they crossed the parking lot. Only Hillary came home. When you asked where Stacy was, Hillary shrugged. “She decided it wasn’t for her.” After that, Stacy vanished from your life. Until six weeks later, you found her in the grocery store. She froze beside the produce section. “Hey,” you said. “What happened? Hillary said you just stopped coming around.” Stacy looked toward the entrance, then back at you. “She told you that?” “What else would she tell me?” Stacy lowered her voice. “Nothing, probably.” Your stomach tightened. “What happened that night?” For several seconds she studied you, as if deciding whether you deserved the answer. “Paul talks about freedom. About how people confuse rules with morality. Hillary loved that part.” You said nothing. “What did he actually teach you?” Stacy swallowed. “Me? I left.” “And Hillary?” Stacy looked away. “She stayed.” A silence passed. “And Paul?” Stacy's expression tightened. “They led the entire class in…” She stopped, then looked back at you. “In what, Stacy?” “Things I don't think should happen in a marriage.” The lights hummed overhead. You stared at her. Suddenly, five months of Hillary’s new confidence made sense.