Because Carl’s also the only lawyer I know in town.

I knock on the front door, but no one answers. Not Carl, not Patty.

It’s odd because Carl works from home. He likes to be around for his kids—his two young kids—who usually nap at this time. Carl and Patty are sticklers for their children’s schedule. Patty lectured me about it during our first night out together. Patty had just celebrated her twenty-eighth birthday, which made the lecture all the more enjoyable. If I was still able to have children—that was how she said it—I was going to have to be careful not to let them rule the roost. I’d have to show them who was in charge. That meant a schedule. That meant, in her case, a 12:30 P.M. nap every day.

It’s 12:45. If Carl isn’t home, why isn’t Patty?

Except that through the living room blinds, I see that Carl is home. I see him standing there, hiding behind those blinds, waiting for me to go.

I knock on the door again, pressing hard on the doorbell. I’m going to ring the doorbell for the rest of the afternoon until he lets me in. Kids’ naps be damned.

Carl swings the door open. He is holding a beer; his hair is neatly combed. Those are the first indicators that something strange is going on. His hair is usually uncombed, which he thinks makes him look sexy. And there is something in his eyes—a strange mix of agitation and fear and something else I can’t name, probably because I’m so shocked that he hid from me.

“What the hell, Carl?” I say.

“Hannah, you need to go,” Carl says.

He’s angry. Why is he angry?

“I just need a minute,” I say.

“Not now, I can’t talk right now,” he says.

He moves to close the door, but I hold it open. My force surprises both of us, the door escaping his grasp, opening wider.

Which is when I see Patty. She stands in the living room doorway, holding her daughter Sarah in her arms, the two of them dressed in matching paisley dresses—their dark hair pulled back into soft braids. The identical attire and haircut only further highlight what Patty wants people to see when they look at Sarah: an equally presentable but smaller version of herself.

Behind them—filling up the living room—a dozen parents and toddlers watch a clown make balloon animals. A HAPPY BIRTHDAY SARAH banner hangs above their heads.

It’s their daughter’s second birthday party. I had totally forgotten about it. Owen and I were supposed to be here celebrating. Now Carl isn’t even opening the door.

Patty offers a confused wave. “Hey there…” she says.

I wave back. “Hi.”

Carl turns back toward me, his voice controlled but firm. “We’ll talk later,” he says.