Later in the car, as we’re heading home, Anne again brings up the need to get away. “I’m going to book the trip,” she says firmly. “We’re going to go away. We’re going to do it. You need it. I need it. We’ll do it together.”

“Annie—”

“It’s your fortieth birthday, Jack. We have to do something special. This is a major milestone.”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep reminding me.”

“I’m serious.” Her hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Philip can manage without me for one weekend. I haven’t been away without the kids in… well, forever. We’ll go somewhere sunny and warm, where we can sit by the pool and sip tall, frosty blender drinks.” She shoots me a quick side glance, and she’s smiling now. “Drinks served by a sexy young thing.”

I smile reluctantly. “Sounds delightful.” But I know we’re not going to go, and I won’t get my hopes up. No point in getting my hopes up. I love Anne, and she’s been there for me this past year every time I needed a friend.

“Where do you want to go?” She hasn’t dropped the fantasy. “Mexico? Arizona? Hawaii?”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s your birthday.”

“I never asked to be forty.”

“Better than the alternative.”

“Without a doubt. But wouldn’t it be nice if somebody had consulted us regarding the aging process? Kris says her eyes are already going. She can’t even read a menu anymore. What’s that about?”

Anne laughs. “You don’t have to worry about that yet. She’s forty-two.”

“Ha ha, very funny.” Only two years from now I get to squint and hold menus and prescription bottles at arm’s length to read the fine print.

“Where’s it going to be?” Anne persists. “Mexico? Hawaii?”

I won’t rain on her parade. “Surprise me.” I smile a little, and then the smile fades as Anne turns onto my street and I see my house at the end. It’s a nice two-story house. Not fancy, but proper. A Beaver Cleaver home in a Beaver Cleaver neighborhood, but I’m no June Cleaver. I know that much.

And some of my social world has let me know, too. This year at Christmas there weren’t any invitations to parties. The kids don’t get asked to sleepovers much anymore. Kristine says it’s because people don’t want to take sides. But they don’t have to take sides, and they don’t have to have me over. Just don’t exclude the children.

Parked in my driveway, Anne leans over to hug me. “I’ll call you tomorrow with the details,” she says. “Last week of January, right?”

“You’re not serious.”

“I am. We’re going to do this. We’ve talked about it for years. Let’s just go do it.”

“Okay.” I’m excited.