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pillows, with embroidered shams descending from the headboard in decreasing-size order  . . .”
    Iliana didn’t begrudge these women their concerns or their passions. It was nice that they had built lives for themselves that suited them. And they had lots of friends who shared their interests. But she simply didn’t. She thought she probably had a lot more in common with the working wives of the executive team, or the women who were on the executive team themselves. She’d love to lunch with them .But most of all, she didn’t like people looking at her from the outside— oh, Iliana, stay-at-home mom —and thinking they knew her. It made her feel invisible, like the speechless blob she had been when she sat at the end of the lunch table bench in sixth grade, hoping that Lizzie or someone would notice her.
    Why is everything always about who you are? Why can’t some things just be the things you have to do? Many years ago, when Iliana was single, she had agreed to go with a friend to a singles weekend in the Poconos. The brochure listed mixer activities such as cooking classes, motivational talks, and risqué party games, and the hotel’s entrance sported a banner claiming “Soulmates Are Our Specialty!” But despite her friend’s insistence that it was all in fun, it took Iliana less than a half-hour at the opening cocktail party to realize she didn’t belong there. The women were all giggly and flirty, the men smirked and nodded appreciatively at the women’s antics, and while a few guys asked her where she came from or what she did for a living, she knew they weren’t really listening to her answers. She hated that nobody was really seeing her .
    Funny enough, it was at the bus station where her friend had dropped her off before heading to her home in Philadelphia that she met Marc, who had had a similarly disappointing experience at the resort. They recognized each other from the opening mixer and sat next to one another on the bus, talking for the entire trip. At the time, Marc was an associate with a small law firm specializing in corporate downsizing, and he said that while he didn’t like helping companies fire people, he got satisfaction from preparing literature to make sure they knew about the benefits they were entitled to. Iliana found him thoughtful and smart. When he asked her questions about her life, she loved that he truly seemed to enjoy learning about her. They got back to Manhattan, and he asked her to dinner the following weekend. She loved that he didn’t make her feel anxious or insecure about whether he’d want to see her again.
    Iliana looked at the invitation. She knew that she should just pick up the phone and call Jena Connors to say she’d be happy to attend. It wasn’t that big a deal to give up three afternoons to support her husband and their family, and to help put Marc in the best possible position to earn a promotion. It would be great if he could become a member of the executive team—and not just because of the money. He would feel good about himself, validated in the work he had done over all these years and the way his life had played out. That was what she was struggling with now. It was heartbreaking to think that all the work she had done had brought her to this place, a place where she served mostly as a support system for her family. A place where all her attempts to write and create and be published again amounted to very little.
    She pushed the invitation away and halfheartedly turned on her computer. When the screen came back to life, she found the Google results page for Jeff Downs still open. A YouTube entry with a thumbnail photo of Jeff and his costars caught her eye. She clicked.
    It was a video of the recording session for “The Best of Times,” the Dreamers’ most famous song and their only one to go platinum. The boys were all in button-down shirts, skinny ties, and tight black jeans, their long hair windswept from their faces. Terry Brice was