I had watched the crowd gather from my bedroom window, trying to steel my nerves for a long afternoon. There would be so many neighbors, so many names and backstories to remember; the thought of it all exhausted me already. It always seemed like everyone else could recall the most minute details of each other’s lives, whereas I just nodded and smiled and pretended to remember that Nancy Johnson had gone to Mackinac Island last month to renew her vows, or that Josie Spadlowski’s son was accepted at Notre Dame and might walk onto the football team in the fall. “You know how much we love the movie Rudy,” she would say.

I could barely remember the details of my own life, let alone anyone else’s. At these neighborhood events, I often felt out of place and not quite complete, like a puzzle with a piece missing. Sure, someone could tell what the picture was supposed to be, but something wasn’t quite right. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to know what the missing piece was supposed to be.

As if all that pressure weren’t enough, a heat wave had unexpectedly hit late that morning, and the heat index was nearly 100 degrees. It meant that everyone would stand around, remarking that the weather “really wouldn’t be that bad, if it weren’t for the humidity.” As Midwesterners, we always seemed to get the short end of the meteorological stick, no matter the season.

I gave a nod to neighbors who lived two streets over—no idea what their name was—as I carefully nudged aside a Crock-Pot full of cocktail meatballs and placed my dip in between that and an enormous bowl of Josh Peterson’s self-proclaimed “famous” Buffalo chicken dip. I set my brownies on the opposite end of the table, in between two other identical pans of brownies.

Whatever. At least I tried.

I spotted Melissa holding a plastic cup of wine, on the edge of the group of neighbors. She sported a white sundress, wedges, and a bored look on her face. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and she trotted over.

“This is terrible already. I know you hate these things as much as I do. I should have faked a work emergency and stayed home. No one would have questioned it, because they all get so uncomfortable whenever I talk about work.” She sighed and peered at the food table. “What did you bring?”

I crooked a finger toward my bowl. “Corn dip.”

“Looks good.” She grabbed a chip and tried to scoop up a sample, but it broke in her hand. She tried again, but the top layer of cheese had hardened into an impenetrable fortress. “Oh.”

I lifted my palms. “I guess I should have heated it up more. That’ll show me for trying to bring something I’ve never made before.” I glanced around at the table. “So, what did you bring?”