See, I couldn’t affect her. She was too intelligent. I came off as the dumb one, and when I finally got her attention, it was charity. I don’t know when I began to realize it, but she made me feel ashamed—for the way I ordered food in a restaurant or for what I wanted to order. Or for talking too much to the waiter—that embarrassed her. I’d joke about something and the waiter and I would laugh, and instead of laughing, she’d stare at me, blinking. Other times, around her, I’d sit there smiling fakely, acting like the perfect boyfriend, and then I’d realize what I was doing, and I’d get furious. I’d think, What the hell am I—her slave?, and haul off and take a cheap shot at her. “Sorry,” I’d say, eating a piece of apple pie she’d baked. “This crust tastes like glue.”

Before Kiffany, I went out with Diana, who was pretty and liked graveyards. Before her was Lisa. We never got out of bed—she never got out of bed. She never did anything except watch TV. I dated Jessica, who had rosy cheeks and flat, oily hair, and who called me my darling, my Vincent: “Could you hand me those potato chips, my darling?” Shut up. These girlfriends, they seemed to like me—sometimes it could be described as love—for anywhere from nine months to two years. I dated a girl named Kurt, who was gorgeous and rode a mountain bike. She was a lesbian but made an exception for me—she explained the switch in a long letter written on tracing paper in purple crayon—it didn’t last, though. I had girlfriends as far back as nursery school. Look at all the years, and all the women, between then and now.

AS I PULLED into Dave’s driveway in Cape May on Friday afternoon, he and Denise walked out the front door and stood with their arms around each other, watching me park the car. I went over and gave my brother a hug. He said, “Hey.” He messed up my hair. I kissed Denise.

“We’re pregnant,” she said, and kissed Dave’s face. “Vincent, I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I know,” I said. I went to the trunk of my car and they followed, arm in arm. Dave grabbed my suitcase, leading me toward the front door. I looked around. Their house and the yard were looking tidy as hell—rigidly manicured lawn, blooming flower beds. On my way up the driveway I’d passed a new mailbox with their names engraved on it.

“The place looks unbelievable,” I said.

“Business is cranking,” he said.

“It must be,” I said.

“It’s nuts,” he said. “Come on.”