“I guess this is it,” Joel said, leaning into the doorway of our apartment. His eyes darted as if he was trying to memorize every detail of the turn-of-the-century New York two-story, the one we’d bought together five years ago and renovated—in happier times. It was a sight: the entryway with its delicate arch, the old mantel we’d found at an antique store in Connecticut and carted home like treasure, and the richness of the dining room walls. We’d agonized about the paint color but finally settled on Morocco Red, a shade that was both wistful and jarring, a little like our marriage. Once it was on the walls, he thought it was too orange. I thought it was just right.

So you began your career in magazines, and you currently work for Glamour. So if we stopped by your place, we’d find you in Jimmy Choos and a coordinated outfit, right?

Umm, sorry to disappoint. I’m currently wearing ratty leggings (hey, at least they’re not jeggings), a shirt that the baby spit up on two hours ago and I’m having an epic bad hair day. Anyway, I did come to fiction by way of magazines. I began my career writing for women’s magazines. My first assignment was for Marie Claire straight out of college. I still think fondly of the email I got from the editor telling me of the assignment. I ought to frame it. And yes, I do work for Glamour. I’m their health and fitness blogger. But don’t get any ideas about me being a glamour girl. I keep expecting someone to nominate me for ‘What Not to Wear.’ I’m always expecting Stacy and Clinton to ambush me.