I do not laugh. Nick Carpenter, the carpenter, waiting for his calling, dreaming of altruism, might enjoy one of those construction-for-charity gigs. Maybe I could hook him up, turn his departure into my own act of charity. Better yet, I could send him to another one of his beloved wilderness camps for fucked-up men, where he’ll spend the rest of the summer digging latrines or spotting belays—I don’t give a shit what he does—and Elizabeth and Jonah will believe he wants to go, because once he’s gone, I’ll say, Nick was too embarrassed to let it show, but seeing us as a happy family was too much for him He begged me not to tell you, but you have a right to understand. Please, keep it between us. He’d never trust again, poor thing.

Then I’ll be the good guy again. I’ll be at home in my home again, thank God.

But if Nick doesn’t take the hint, or if he gives me shit, I’ll call him out and say, Did you think you could play me for a fool?

And he’ll say, I underestimated you.

And I’ll say, This is your only warning, and he’ll be gone.

Just imagining this scene opens a valve in me, relieving pressure I hadn’t felt building until it’s gone. This allows me to be courteous, even though I’d like to break his nose; and he is gracious, even though he wants to fuck my wife. Perhaps he’s gracious not in spite of but because of his position—what he’s been given: the opportunity to take what’s mine.

I drive him to the farthest point on the beach and ditch him there. Leave the verbal threats and busted headlights to other men with other problems. I’ll eliminate the symptom in good time.

Elizabeth’s office door is closed when I get home from work, which means she’s not to be disturbed: her top condition for working from home. Her handbag is draped open on the granite countertop. Through a gap between leather seams, the glass screen of her cell phone reflects overhead lights. If I were one of those desperate, insecure men, I’d probably sneak a look. Fortunately, I’m not one of those men, and my trance is disrupted by the click and creak of Elizabeth’s office door opening, anyway. Next comes the high-pitched arc of her grand sigh, a ceremonial victory song marking the end of her day. I step away from temptation and fling open the refrigerator door so that I’m focused on condiments, not the contents of Lizzie’s bag, when she enters the room.

“I know,” she says. “We’re out of limes. They are at the top of my list.”