This was the world’s most boring conversation, and I was losing her. There’s a chemistry to friendship, you have to be in flow, and I was so much in my own head that I couldn’t relax.

“Northeast.”

She nodded, handing me my glass, and we stood there in silence, not a comfortable one, for just a moment too long. Then she said, “Let’s call the boys and eat.”

The dinner itself was fine. Since Michael and Wyatt were both there, we had enough conversation without a big effort from me. They talked about work—Michael’s favorite topic—and the neighborhood, and some women’s group called the Bluebonnets. We learned about changes in the homeowners’ association and about Elizabeth and Wyatt’s passion for camping and skiing.

Elizabeth was skilled at steering Wyatt away from engineering and back to more general topics. I used to excel at that dance, roping Michael into interacting with people at art exhibitions and museum galas. Then we’d go to dinner with a bunch of engineers, and I’d be the life of the party. That Kacy seemed like a different person now.

I caught Michael glancing at me from the corner of his eye. I wasn’t participating enough, and he’d noticed. There was a momentary lull, so I asked a surefire winner. “How did you two meet?”

And it worked. Wyatt looked to Elizabeth, waiting for her to take the lead. She rested her hand on his arm, and the gesture had a graceful yet practiced look. “We met at university. McGill in Montreal. I was working on a degree in design with a minor in accounting, and he was in the electrical engineering program.” She paused and I saw her fingers tighten on Wyatt’s arm, signaling his turn to speak.

He said, “In addition to the degree requirements, I had to take an elective from a list of ‘complementary studies.’ Maybe it was the same for you?”

Michael laughed. “I had a whole bunch of required ‘nonengineering classes.’ Americans believe in general education. Freshman comp was the worst experience of my life.”

Worst experience of my life. I didn’t look at him, but every cell in my body froze. He was joking—it was a throwaway phrase, I knew that; my rational mind argued his case. But on a visceral level, the worst experience of my life had been the past year. Hadn’t it been his worst experience too? Or at least worse than any first-year composition class, even one that featured poetry writing and performance?

Wyatt grinned. “Things could have been worse for me, that’s what you’re saying. So, I was taking a course on the sociology of something—”