She stood up slowly and carefully out of consideration for Matthew, sure, but mostly she stood slowly and carefully because she had zero desire to speak to or even acknowledge another soul and maybe especially not him. She crept toward the window and stood between the drawn linen shade and the glass. She loved the garden, so pallid right then, save one red cardinal taking flight. How the leaves on the neighbors’ massive maple spilled over their fence and swayed in the slight breeze created by that bird. How, beyond the shimmying leaves, a beat-up wicker couch and table were offset by overgrown English laurel. She loved how it looked from this vantage as though theirs was a peaceful life.

In the car heading north, the silence between them became its own kind of noise. “I mean,” she started, “just—”

He waited a while before acknowledging that she’d cut herself off before finishing anything close to a sentence. “‘Just’…?”

She kept her gaze on the horizon. “What are we going to tell them?”

Matthew changed lanes three times.

“Watch it!” she cried.

“About yesterday?”

She shook her head. “Not about that.”

“We’ll just tell them,” he said quietly. “They’re good people.”

“I know. But—”

“A friend’s a friend.” He shrugged. “Even if it’s been a long time.”

“You have a wider definition of a friend. You make friends all the time.”

“Okay”—he smiled—“this is true. But so is what I’m saying.”

“You’re saying they’ll understand. We don’t understand.”

“It’ll be fine.” He kept his eyes on the road.

THEY DROVE AROUND A LAKE, hugging the pine-tree shoreline. Out the window: shadow play on the open road; no signs of public access to the dark and glittering water. There were only houses and docks, boats and privacy. Privacy breeds mystery. Who said that to her? Low and naughty. About their time apart: she didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to hear from Matthew what he had or hadn’t done and with whom, and she’d never tell, even if he asked. But she imagined enumerating her experiences to Kiki late at night, on a deck, while throwing stones in the water below. All of the strangers—they blurred together as if they were merely part of a recurring and disturbing dream in which she was strangely powerful. Why she recalled power was unclear. Her memories were—more often than not—of being more than vaguely uncomfortable.

She hoped Arman and Kiki had one of these houses—a house with access and mystery. She’d dive in the water immediately. Forget about greetings or a bathing suit. Forget holding the baby. She’d get Kiki and Arman to jump in with her. They’d swim and swim and—

“It’s not one of these houses.”

“What?”

“I was just looking at the map, so don’t get your hopes up. They’re in town.”