John said, “We’re just fine, thanks, ma’am,” and he refused the twenty that she tried to stuff in his palm for the cab when it approached. Poppy was loudly whisper-slurring, “What are you doing? John, take that money! John —” as he ushered her into the car.

Scott and Lisa honeymooned in Cancun.

Lisa called Poppy on the second day and complained of the affected accent that Scott put on when speaking to the hotel staff and the sycophantic way he asked for a blow job. Poppy was snorting with laughter until she heard tears in Lisa’s voice.

“Oh, no,” Poppy said. “I thought you were joking. But it can’t be that bad, right? You’re jet-lagged.”

Lisa sniffed. “You’re right, I’m just in a funk.”

Poppy said, “Have a margarita and take a nap.” She paused, then lowered her voice. “And if it is that bad, well, listen, I’m sure it’s not too late to get it annulled. You’ve got options.”

It was a shaky start, but things settled down after the honeymoon.

Things were quite good for a while, actually. Scott and Lisa did a lot of traveling over the next few years. Lisa got into yoga and organic cooking and expensive skin-care lines from the Home Shopping Network. Then she got pregnant.

And now, somehow, both couples were approaching their twentieth anniversaries. Twenty years? Amazing how time could slither away from you, that sly bastard. Blink and a year is gone. Get a good night’s sleep and when you wake your kids are half grown.

Back at the house, Poppy was surprised to find Rae awake—it wasn’t yet six thirty. Rae was seated on a barstool at the kitchen island. She was still wearing her yellow pajamas, but her hair looked neat and combed-through, her face bright, possibly a little makeup, features wide awake as though she had been up for hours. She was drinking coffee and reading from the same novel she’d had on the beach the day before.

Poppy said, “Hola.”

Rae said, “Hi.”

Poppy knelt. She removed one shoe. It stank, so she put it back on, loosened all the laces, and shuffled around with untied shoes. She poured herself a glass of water.

“You’re an early bird for a teenager,” Poppy observed. “My kid would sleep till noon if I’d allow it. You drink black coffee?”

Rae nodded. “But my mom makes me do half-decaf.”

“I see,” Poppy said. She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the toaster. Hair huge, a clown’s wig, sprung free from the rubber band and bobby pins. Face still red with exertion and slick with sweat, she observed, “I look like I escaped from a mental institution.” She hoped this would elicit a giggle from Rae, but it did not. She fluffed her hair up even bigger. “Cavewoman?”

Rae tented her book on the counter before her, tucked her hair behind her ear, and said, “You smell like smoke.”

An ice cube slid into Poppy’s mouth and she crunched it. “You don’t miss much, do ya?”