My finger hovers over the doorbell. For the first time since I hatched this plan and we started executing it I’m realizing the full scope of the stupidity of what we’re doing.

“Whose idea was this again?” I say, with a lame little laugh. I should apologize now to get it out of the way, but I just can’t. Not yet. “What if we hate them?”

“What do you mean, ‘what if’? Of course we’ll hate them.”

I try to shake off the dread. “It’s only two nights, right?”

“Unless we leave early.”

We both try to laugh but can’t.

“What’s his name again?” Gary asks.

“I forget.”

“Hers is Sari. Sari, Sari, Sari.” He practices as his finger slowly heads for the doorbell and presses it.

“At least this absurdity will be an icebreaker,” I say, trying to get my face around the cellophane on the plant.

I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply. When the door finally opens all four of us freeze. I’m trying to get past my shock and awe at actually seeing Sari Epstein in person after only seeing her on my phone screen all this time—and trying to gauge, for Glenn, whether or not her forehead really is as prominent as it seems (it is), until finally we all awkwardly wave and start talking and shaking hands. Sari and her husband are probably trying to figure out how they got roped into housing us the night before a retreat.

“Gary,” Gary says.

“Gregory.”

“My wife, Judy,” Gary says, turning to me, and then to Sari. “And you must be Sorry.”

“‘Sari,’” Gregory corrects.

Gary stiffens. “Isn’t that what I said?”

“No. You said ‘Sorry.’”

“Sorry!” he says, without a trace of sincerity, until my elbow hits his rib and he tries again. “That must happen all the time. The Sari-Sorry thing.”

Gregory sniffs humorlessly. “Actually, it doesn’t.”

I wait for Sari to give Gregory a similar elbow to the ribs—we’re wives, after all, trying to make our dudes behave in an uncomfortable social situation—but she barely seems to register the tension. You’d think she’d pretend then. Doesn’t she want me to like her?

Gary and I look at each other, then at the birds on both our heads. I push the orchid plant on Sari, harder than I intend to. Then, too loudly, I blurt: “Thanks so much for inviting us even though you didn’t actually invite us since we invited ourselves! Sorry about that!”

Sari Epstein’s face finally registers an expression. I think she’s overwhelmed, but it might just be Botox. Whatever the cause of her placid expression, she seems to be struggling under the weight of the plant, which is understandable: it’s almost twice as big as she is. As am I. How can she be so small? Are her bones actually smaller than mine or do they just seem that way? Does she buy her clothes at Gap Kids or Janie and Jack?

Finally, she speaks with the breathless, practiced gratitude of the professional guru. “Thank you,” she says, adding the flourish of a bowed head. “Orchids are my favorite.”