I hummed, very low, barely a sound, a few notes of “Psycho Killer.”

He was looking at her as she came down heavily on his lap, but he heard me—or at least he understood without hearing me—and a tiny corner of his mouth flinched up though he was fighting it hard.

Mandy leapt up. “What’s this?” She grabbed at the air over the table between Wes and me. “What is all this? I hate it. I hate it.” She was fighting it now, some invisible swarm over the table. Her hand swiped at a glass and it went flying behind her, then more of the glasses and the bottles flew in different directions, and Wes just sat there waiting it out. When she stopped, she looked like she had so much she wanted to be hollering but it got stuck somewhere. The metal shavings of her expression rearranged again to a defiant brokenness.

There was tapping at the door.

Her head swiveled again. “I wonder who that could be,” she said mechanically.

“Maybe it’s Ethan,” I said.

“Ethan who?”

“Ethan Frome.” I moved to get the door before I could see her reaction.

It was William. In that fucking turquoise sari. He ducked. A Jim Beam bottle sailed over his head, skittered along the porch boards, slipped under the railing and smashed on the pavement below. He must have followed me three hours on the highway from the church parking lot.

Mandy came after me in her stiff-kneed way, but I quickly got around the table. She chased me, but the imaginary knee thing really slowed her down and I had to be careful not to go so fast that I caught up with her from behind.

“Are we playing Duck, Duck, Goose?” William said, coming into the kitchen.

“Oh fuck, is that your asshole?” Wes said.

“It is I,” William said. “Her asshole.”

“Definitely not what I expected.”

“It’s all very sexy under there, unfortunately,” I said, still speed walking around the table.

Mandy stopped in front of William. “This is so intricate,” she said, fingering the gold embroidery of his neckline.

Another knock on the door. William was closest.

“Hey man.” It was Jeb. “Cool dress.” He took in the room, saw me against the far wall. “Lucy,” he said, his voice rising. He came over to me. “You’re back.” He kissed me. His lips were cold and tasted of smoke and pine. “I had this fear you wouldn’t come back from Massachusetts. It was weird.”

“You’ve been in the woods.”

“Mhmm.” He kissed me again. “Party.” And again. “Bonfire.” He was young. He didn’t care who saw all the desire and energy he had.

“Petra had the baby,” William said. “A little girl named Oriole.”

It was the first time I’d felt alone in my body, like somebody was missing. I hadn’t felt it before.