Their house had been designed by the same builder as ours, the same builder as everyone else’s in the whole planned community, but theirs was two stories to our one. We dutifully followed Wyatt around the first floor, where the kitchen connected to the formal dining room, and up the stairs, where a spare bedroom had the same “pre-nursery” look our extra bedroom did.

Then we trooped back down. Wyatt invited Michael out into the garage, where he was experimenting with brewing his own beer, and they disappeared, leaving me with Elizabeth.

The thing about making friends is that you need a person with some rough edges. It’s like Velcro. If there aren’t any little hooks, you’ll slide right off. Standing here with a stranger felt like being a kid when your mom goes to visit a friend and they send you into the backyard to “play” with whatever other child happens to be there. A two-year age difference, a gender gap, even a girl who likes video games while you still like dolls and you’ll both end up staring at each other in mild disappointment and silent boredom.

So I started cataloging all the little things about Elizabeth, looking for an entry. Her nails weren’t polished, just short and sensible. She’d hit the sweet spot between casual and “making an effort” with slinky black trousers, no-show socks, and a scoop-neck fitted tee in royal blue. A trio of rings hung from a silver chain around her neck. She caught me looking and lifted one up to show me. “Do you like it? My two best friends each have one.” The golden rings looked handcrafted—one yellow, one white, one rose gold. It’s hokey, I told myself, like the grown-up version of a braided friendship bracelet.

But I couldn’t help reaching out and stroking the cool metal. “Beautiful. Do you get to see your friends often?”

She smiled, one of those women with a natural grin, and said, “We catch up over Christmas, and we try to do a girls’ trip once a year. But my friend Meagan just had a baby, and I think scheduling’s going to get trickier. We’re always FaceTiming and texting. You’ve got to have other women in your corner, you know?” She opened a drawer, took out an oven mitt, and slipped it on.

“Yes,” I agreed, but I wasn’t really listening. Those women were on the dark side of the moon in Canada. I was right here, perfect friend material. I leaned against the kitchen counter, trying to look casual.

Elizabeth opened the oven and slid out a baking sheet with something wrapped in foil. Setting it down, she asked, “So, have you thought about what you’ll be doing? I mean, while Michael’s at work?”