We follow the sidewalk through familiar territory, reporting gossip under our breath—Did you hear Mary Ellen is thinking of selling the house? And, Martin’s battling the HOA over that spruce, which reminds me to schedule a tree-trim for the elm going rogue over our front yard. Gabriel would have complained, but his house has been on the market for six months while he sweats it out in his East Hampton upgrade, so he’s not there to nitpick, and I kind of like a rogue elm. We cross over to the unfamiliar (Who on earth drives a truck like that?) and stumble upon a playground that never merited a second glance until now. Tonight, an empty swing set looks like a buffer. Juvenile, sure, but who can throw suspicious looks while facing forward? Who can get gridlocked while in motion, or be bitter adults when behaving like children? Elizabeth follows me across the grass, past a well-groomed sandbox, and watches me claim the highest-strung swing. Here’s something I haven’t done in at least fifteen years. Not since Jonah was a boy. Not since that nightmare jungle gym from Home Depot I assembled in our backyard.

Elizabeth laughs. “You sure are feeling at ease tonight, aren’t you?”

I tuck my toes on the downswing. “Yes. Finally.”

She wraps her hands around the chains, backs up until she’s on her toes, and drops into the cracked rubber seat. “It’s nice to see.”

“How would you feel about getting out of town one of these weekends? Heading somewhere for a night?”

“Like where?”

“We could drive upstate or go to Nantucket. Or head into the city to see a show. Spa, room service. I don’t know.”

She floats with legs extended. For one weightless arc, we are synced. “Sure,” she says, and we fall out of rhythm again. “That sounds nice.”

She drags her toes in the dirt and comes to a stop, so I drag mine, too: a pair of adults dangling out of our element, unmoored and opened. In Elizabeth’s pause, I feel her not saying something, and I know that the unsaid thing is what’s driving distance between us, so I make a guess. “Do you miss the city?”

“No.” With her heel, she draws spirals in the dirt. “Sometimes.”

“All you have to do is speak up. We can go in more if you want.”

“It’s not the city, exactly,” she says. “I mean, it’s not anything, really. I’m fine. I couldn’t live there again, I don’t think, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t even know what I’m saying. Maybe I could. You asked, so I’m answering. I’m just saying, sometimes I miss the opportunities I passed up—not that they were mine for the taking. I miss the sense of opportunity.”

“The sense of opportunity you felt in your twenties,” I prompt.

“Sure.”