Melissa cleared her throat. “My childhood was enough of a horror movie, and it turned me into a wimp.” Except, she was the furthest thing from a wimp: she was a senior vice president at a large banking corporation run mostly by old white men who’d asked her to fetch coffee and to fudge expense reports during her first week there. Her husband, Tony, stayed home with their kids and swapped sous vide recipes with all the neighbors. This was less than approved by her conservative parents, who were high-ranking members of a wealthy megachurch that held Sunday services with a laser light show and fog machines, like a Jesus nightclub.

“I’m all in,” Jess said as she plopped down, tequila cradled in her elbow like a newborn. “You guys know there’s very little I will say no to.”

“Jess, trust us. We know. Did you ever hang those bedroom blinds?” Melissa said.

I settled down on the couch, pulling an embroidered blanket over my lap. “I’m the one who lives next door to her and has front-row seats to the nightly show. What are you guys complaining about?” I smiled at Jess.

“You’re welcome,” Jess said as she tipped her glass to me with a laugh.

“No complaints here,” I replied. “Del’s a lucky guy.”

“If you choose a horror movie, I’m leaving,” Melissa said as she began to rise from the couch, her black suit bunching.

I gestured for her to sit down, and we tried to find something else, but no one could agree on a movie. Instead, we chatted about how glad we were not to deal with homework since it was the summer, what we would do with our kids for the next three months, how none of us had gotten our kids into that fancy vacation Bible school camp that all the other moms mysteriously did, and how our neighbor Greg Spadlowski’s new hair plugs gave us Nic Cage vibes.

Then Liz said, “Let’s go outside and christen the She Shed location!”

We refilled our drinks and followed Liz outside. I eyed her tiki bar on the deck, covered in straw and colorful parrots. It was a source of pride for her, so much so that we’d had to gently talk her out of hosting a Jimmy Buffett–themed party for Tim’s stuffy law firm partners last summer.

“But who doesn’t love ‘Margaritaville’?” she had said, confused. “His concerts at Alpine Valley are so much fun.”

“I know, but probably not the most appropriate theme for a group of corporate suits. My office’s last party was themed ‘Bourbon and Bites,’ ” Melissa had replied.