She rings the bell and the door opens, revealing such a happy Neale—“Come in, come in, oh you look great”—pulling Cate by the hand.

Claude is working at the kitchen island, slicing hard-boiled eggs, then fanning the slices open, one to each plate of also-fanned lettuce leaves, next to small stacks of green beans. He looks up and smiles, flashing teeth blindingly white, endearingly crooked.

“Cate.”

He’s such a handsome guy, more so even than when he and Neale were together. Five years of meditation and organic gardening have left him sculpted in that yogi way and glistening with peace. He and Neale are wearing stretchy yoga outfits. They are, Neale explains, just back from teaching a Saturday afternoon couples class. Both of them are working at two local studios while they get their act together to open one of their own. Madison, they both think, is a town with deep, under-tapped yoga potential.

“He’s arranging our salads,” Neale explains. “Because he’s French. No careless tossing for them. Take off your parka, give it to me, do you want something to drink?” Cate was just about to grab a can of pop from the refrigerator, the way she always does. But then she remembers this is a different household. She tacks around, stays put, and says, “By ‘something to drink,’ do you mean a juice that’s bluish green?”

“I got diet ginger ale for you. I’m the perfect hostess. Do you want ice?”

“Why not?”

Neale grabs ice cubes out of the freezer, inadvertently putting herself in the way of Claude’s reach for something on a high cabinet shelf. He kisses her at the temple, just a brush of lips. For some reason, Cate didn’t factor romance into Claude’s return. She thought that part was all over for them, that the new arrangement was just about calming things down for Neale, and helping out with Joe. This doesn’t make Cate jealous exactly, but it does prompt a need to cheer herself up with a little schadenfreude, which means scanning all of the apartment’s terrible design elements.