Chap­ter 13 begins with a sense of sub­tle trans­for­ma­tion as Jane steps fur­ther into the world of Thorn­field Estates. The gath­er­ing with Emi­ly, Camp­bell, Anna-Grace, and Landry feels less alien this time—less like she’s infil­trat­ing a soror­i­ty and more like she’s learn­ing its rules. Wear­ing soft neu­tral tones, her out­fit mir­rors Emily’s, and even that small detail sig­nals Jane’s grow­ing aware­ness of how appear­ances mat­ter in this cir­cle.

This neigh­bor­hood doesn’t just prize man­i­cured lawns and taste­ful sea­son­al decor—it thrives on qui­et com­pe­ti­tion masked as civil­i­ty. At the gath­er­ing, con­ver­sa­tions float between land­scap­ing projects, HOA-approved upgrades, and baby show­er plans, but each top­ic serves a deep­er pur­pose: social rank­ing. When Jane casu­al­ly men­tions get­ting solar lights for the gar­den path, she watch­es their reac­tions closely—not for approval, but for signs that she’s earned a sliv­er of per­ma­nence.

Preg­nant Anna-Grace glows as she talks about her lat­est yard project, reveal­ing she secured donat­ed sod through a friend’s father. It’s the kind of com­mu­ni­ty favor that’s treat­ed like social cur­ren­cy, plac­ing her tem­porar­i­ly at the top of this unspo­ken hier­ar­chy. Landry com­pli­ments the idea, sip­ping iced tea like a queen observ­ing her court, and Jane mar­vels at how effort­less these women make it look.

But Jane knows it’s not effort­less at all. There’s a chore­og­ra­phy to these inter­ac­tions: the right bal­ance of humil­i­ty and pride, of casu­al wealth and pub­lic ser­vice. She’s not unfa­mil­iar with per­for­ma­tive social cues—foster homes and group shel­ters taught her how to read a room quickly—but this ver­sion comes with pearls, pas­tel knits, and expen­sive strollers.

While the group laughs about foot­ball rival­ries, Jane offers a vague com­ment and imme­di­ate­ly real­izes her mis­take. She doesn’t know which team they expect her to sup­port, and in this com­mu­ni­ty, col­lege alle­giances are short­hand for val­ues, class, and region­al loy­al­ty. Emi­ly offers her a life­line by chang­ing the sub­ject, but Jane has already clocked the moment—another reminder she’s still on the out­side look­ing in.

As con­ver­sa­tion turns toward rela­tion­ships, the women drop hints wrapped in humor: “Eddie’s such a catch,” Camp­bell says with a play­ful nudge. “What’s he wait­ing for?” The tone is light, but the sub­text is loaded—marriage is the next log­i­cal step, and Jane’s lack of a ring hasn’t gone unno­ticed.

That pres­sure doesn’t escape her. Though the words are friend­ly, the impli­ca­tion is sharp: secu­ri­ty and worth in Thorn­field Estates come through com­mit­ment. Jane’s inter­nal dia­logue stirs with unease, know­ing that while she’s play­ing the part, she hasn’t ful­ly secured her place—and that makes her vul­ner­a­ble.

At times, she won­ders what these women would think if they knew the truth about her past—the shel­ters, the half-fin­ished degrees, the jobs that didn’t come with ben­e­fits or hol­i­day bonus­es. She won­ders what it would take to tru­ly belong here with­out pre­tend­ing, but she already knows the answer: it would take a ring and a title. Until then, she is the girl­friend, not the wife, and the dis­tinc­tion mat­ters more than any of them will say aloud.

Still, Jane observes how each woman per­forms her role. Landry is the chic mom with a firm opin­ion on organ­ic lawn treat­ments. Anna-Grace is the sweet South­ern wife with a Pin­ter­est-per­fect nurs­ery. Even Emi­ly, who once showed signs of rebel­lion, knows exact­ly when to smile and when to press—like now, when she casu­al­ly com­ments on wed­ding venues as if ask­ing about the weath­er.

Jane plays along, match­ing their ener­gy, but behind the smiles, her thoughts race. She’s gath­er­ing intel, learn­ing what mat­ters, decod­ing what counts. And the more she lis­tens, the more she under­stands how thin the line is between being accept­ed and being tol­er­at­ed.

The women even­tu­al­ly move on to plan­ning anoth­er com­mit­tee meet­ing, their words pep­pered with phras­es like “lega­cy projects” and “neigh­bor­hood tra­di­tions.” Jane nods along, offer­ing to fol­low up on a local nurs­ery that might donate autumn mums. Her con­tri­bu­tion is not­ed with polite smiles, but she can tell—it’s not enough yet.

After the meet­ing, Jane lingers in her car, watch­ing them wave each oth­er off. There’s a strange hol­low­ness in the moment. She’s inside the house now, sit­ting at the table, sip­ping from the same glass­es, but the invi­ta­tion still feels con­di­tion­al.

In neigh­bor­hoods like Thorn­field, peo­ple don’t say what they’re think­ing. They hint, sug­gest, smile. And Jane, more flu­ent than she’s giv­en cred­it for, has learned to smile back—perfectly, pre­cise­ly, and always on time.