It’s also almost impossible to carry, now that the wind has picked up and Gary is circling for a parking space. Waiting for him on the sidewalk, I feel like I’m windsurfing and that with one more strong gust I could end up airborne. When Gary comes around the corner and spots me, he pulls up and I open the trunk, but we quickly realize that the orchid won’t fit upright in the trunk (too tall) or lie flat in the back (too delicate). The only way to get it to Sari Epstein’s is to open the sunroof and drive with the plant sticking way out of the top of the car, like a scene out of a Dr. Seuss movie.

“Seriously?” Gary says, staring at the giant orchid. He’s surprised but not surprised.

“That’s all they had,” I lie.

Gary looks at me, shakes his head. “See, this is why we’re broke.”

“No, we’re broke because I’m taking a weekend writing seminar with a creativity specialist to help me get unblocked so I can get my career back so we won’t be broke anymore.”

“Is that what Glenn says?”

“That’s what I say.”

“I’d rather know what she says.”

I hand him my phone. “Then ask her yourself.”

He snaps a picture of the plant sticking out of the sunroof and texts it to her with the caption Hostess gift.

Seconds later, Glenn replies with a string of emojis—hands clapping, hearts beating, champagne glasses, dogs, unicorns, balloons—and then another text arrives with just one emoji.

I show it to Gary before he pulls out into traffic. “It’s for you.”

The Sleepover

Sari Epstein’s house—a low-slung expansive midcentury ranch—sprawls atop a gently rolling hill, all white and glass and steel under a cloudy, gunmetal autumn sky—but the long driveway is blocked by huge shrubs, each wrapped in burlap and trussed like rib roasts. Confused, Gary slows, then parks on the side of the road. We get out of the car and stretch, then he gets our bags out while I crawl into the backseat to carefully extricate the orchid.

It’s a hike up the long driveway to the front door, and we don’t suffer it in silence—there’s eye-rolling and sighing and even a grunt or two as I struggle with the plant swaying in my arms. We would have never lasted a week at Plimoth Plantation or on the American Frontier, I think, as I shift the weight of the plant from one hip to the other. Gary looks at me and shakes his head. “If it’s not the dog, it’s a giant orchid.” He’s right. What is it with me and giant barriers to the world?

When we finally reach the door, we freeze. This has happened before to us—whenever we arrive somewhere, usually for dinner years ago, there would always be the tempting moment to forgo the knock; to back away silently from the door, to return to the car—the desire to leave before arriving has always been strong. Back when we were still in love it was because we preferred our own company to that of others; now it’s that being with others makes us feel worse than being alone.