Kiki put her fingers to her lips as they approached a familiar stand of trees. As they crept along silently, Sarah looked through the skein of branches toward the lake. Arman stood on the sand, facing the water. Matthew sat on a towel, drying in the sun. Arman must have been holding Sylvie, but with his back to the woods it was hard to tell. From this vantage, with the sun bouncing off the water and casting a golden blur, it might have been twenty years ago; they all took the train to Long Beach once, early on a Sunday morning. Right now, the years might mix together and a five-year-old Leda might just pop out of the water and demand a towel. Or an eight-year-old Leda could ask to hold Sylvie by herself; Matthew would show her how.

They walked swiftly past their husbands. The woods became denser, the path less clearly defined. They walked in silence long enough that it felt awkward to break that silence.

“Why are you living here?” Sarah finally spoke.

Kiki didn’t stop walking, but Sarah had the feeling Kiki was about to. “It’s cheap.”

“But surely you could rent something in—”

“When’s the last time you tried to rent an apartment?” Kiki sped up again.

“Why does everyone talk to me like I don’t know anything?”

Sarah could have sworn she heard Kiki stifle a laugh.

“Are you laughing?”

“No. I’m not.” It was true: she didn’t look amused. “Sarah.”

“What?”

“You have never really worked.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve never worked.”

Sarah felt her face go hot. Her eyes started to itch. “Do you have any idea what it takes to make a film?”

“That’s not what I’m talking ab—”

“Plus, I teach.”

“Okay.” Kiki shook her head. “But you know what I mean.”

Sarah gritted her teeth. She felt the enamel scraping.

“I’m not saying you’re not talented and extremely compelling. I’m saying—”

“So,” Sarah interrupted, “I know I don’t know anything about how your life has been.” She stopped walking and Kiki did, too. “Just like,” Sarah said, against her better judgment, “you don’t know about mine. And I know”—Sarah hesitated—“I know I’m really bad at keeping in touch.” She shook her head. “You’re so good at it.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“What? You are good at it.”

“I really, really hate when people say that. It’s like saying someone is good at making small talk. No one likes to make small talk—”

“Who said anything about small talk?”

“People make small talk to be polite. And being polite is about making other people feel comfortable.”

“Who’s talking about being polite?”

“I am.” Kiki suddenly sounded furious. “I am talking about it. Is that okay with you?”

Sarah nodded.

“I am talking about the fact that no one is good at keeping in touch. It’s not a skill like playing the piano or drawing. People either need one another and care enough to take the time to express that need or they don’t.”