“I don’t know. The attic. The basement. The roof! We’ll watch for Santa Claus.” She frowned with pursed lips. “Although I don’t know that he’s speaking to me these days. Pretty sure I’m on the naughty list.”

“Why is that?” I could not imagine this woman being naughty in any way, shape, or form.

Well, I could, but I was trying not to.

She bit her bottom lip. “I got drunk at this event at our country club called Breakfast with Santa. I stole Santa’s microphone. I said ‘don’t be an asshole’ to everyone in a room full of kids.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Wow.”

She sighed, looking into her empty glass like she hoped more wine would magically appear. “It was not my finest moment.”

“Well, everyone has to let off steam now and again. Want a little more wine?”

She grinned and nodded, rising up on her tiptoes. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

I refilled our glasses with a small pour and handed hers back.

“What about you?” She took a little sip. “Throw any public tantrums lately?”

I laughed. “Can’t say I’ve thrown any public tantrums, but every couple days I beat the hell out of the heavy bag at the gym. That seems to help.”

“I get that. Punching things probably feels pretty good.”

“I can confirm that it does.”

“Do you feel like . . .” But then she shook her head. “Never mind. I should stop bothering you and go home.” She lifted her glass to her lips.

“No. Go ahead.” I surprised myself by pressing the issue—talking about my feelings was my least favorite thing to do. Renee and I had talked them to death, on our own and with a counselor. But talking to Sylvia felt nice—I didn’t want her to leave. I surprised myself again by touching her shoulder. “What were you going to ask?”

She stared into her glass as she twirled the stem. “I was just going to ask if you felt like your friends abandoned you after your wife left. If you felt like people didn’t care about what you were going through and you had nobody to talk to.”

“Oh.” I thought for a second. “Not really, I guess. But . . . I’m more of a private person. I didn’t really want to talk about it. It was done, and there was nothing anyone could say to change that.”

“I know, but . . .” She looked up at me, her expression serious. “Didn’t you ever feel so lonely you wanted to scream?”

I felt a sudden compulsion to put my arms around her, and had to force myself not to. “That’s when I go punch things. You should try it sometime.”

She tipped up her wine again, finishing it. I finished mine too and reached for her glass. “Here, I’ll take that.”