I don’t react. For several long seconds, I continue to kneel without spinning around. He’s been standing there how long? That sickly composer must have intercepted my radar. I rise and wipe my hands on my suit pants, as though they were Carhartt coveralls and I’m the handyman. “Nick,” I say.

He’s wearing gym clothes and standing in the doorway with his fingers laced behind his head. He’s blocking my exit. Power move. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, fine.” I shimmy past him, past his sweat smell. “Where have you been?”

“Went for a run,” he says, following me. “Like to knock it out before it gets too hot.”

“You are a go-getter, aren’t you?”

He snickers. So cocky, so cool, so transparent. I’m embarrassed for him and would just as soon leave and never acknowledge this whole run-in, but Nick asks, “Is there something wrong with the shower?”

“No,” I say. “Thought there might be, but it turns out everything is fine.”

“Oh.” He shadows me into his messy room. “Well, that’s good.”

I step outside, but the power line connecting my brain to my feet misfires, bringing my whole self to a halt. I wasn’t prepared to see Elizabeth tiptoeing toward us like she is. Her head is down. Her feet are bare. She’s wearing short shorts with the elastic waistband rolled down and that sweatshirt that hangs off her shoulder, no bra. Again. She’s too busy sidestepping twigs and anthills to have noticed me standing here yet, because when she looks up and sees me and not Nick in the doorframe, her body jerks. Her face falls, and yet, her face looks neat. Her hair is wet, water dripping down her neck. Her lips shine pink.

“Robert,” she says. “I thought you’d left.”

“Good morning,” Nick says from over my shoulder.

Elizabeth shakes her confusion and smiles past me. “Morning, Nick.”

“Are you wearing makeup?” I ask her.

“No, Robert,” she lies.

“Really? Because it looks like you’re wearing makeup.” I’m as mortified for myself as for her, but if I resist holding her accountable for these shameless appeals for attention, she’ll keep right on humiliating herself, and I value my respect for her too much to let it go.

“Oh my God. You’re being such a weirdo.”

“Well then,” I say, biting back the rest, “I’m off to work.” I smile at the both of them and leave my wife, barefoot and blushing, alone with sweaty Nick.

“I’m grilling branzino tonight,” she shouts after me. “You’ll be home early?”

“Barring catastrophe,” I say without turning.