When Tom comes back, she hides the dirtied jeans in the laundry basket. She's not sure why because she knows he wouldn't even notice, let alone question it, but she does anyway. She hides them underneath the twins' uniforms and the baby's bibs, and locks it away so she doesn't remember. She doesn't want to think of her when she's welcoming her husband home, or when she kisses her children good night. And when Tom asks if the weekly poker game went well, all she can think of is the second where Bree's hand brushed her thigh so lightly she wasn't sure if it happened. He looks up from his laptop to her for an answer, and she smiles weakly.
All she can manage is "It was fun."
But she won't tell him about sitting in the backyard, the wet grass and the heavy tension. She will erase that from her mind as though it didn't exist. It never happened. She didn't watch her friend, her neighbour, her....lover fall apart under her own ministrations, skilfully tearing Bree into pieces. Because it never happened.
Lynette sat on the end of the bed as Tom undressed behind her, watching the starlit sky. She tried to join the stars up, like she did with her ageing father when she was a child, making fantastical shapes and people from the biggest canvas in the world. She stared intently, but couldn't see anything beyond the stars as they sat twinkling.
A car alarm went off in the far distance.
And Lynette realised she wasn't the same anymore.
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