But Michael liked his job; he was excited about it. When my future plans exploded back in Jersey, I had holed up in our apartment like I was waiting out the apocalypse. One of us had to troubleshoot the life we were living, and I clearly hadn’t been up to it. So he contacted a headhunter.

Michael had picked up a nice Sangiovese to bring with us, and I clenched the neck of the bottle like I was throttling it. We were here because of me, because I had trusted the wrong person. Now I had to make it work. I would meet these people, and we would have a lovely evening. But first I had to prepare.

“So it’s Elizabeth and …”

“Wyatt. Like Wyatt Earp,” Michael answered.

“Very Texas.”

His lips quirked up. “Except they’re from Canada. I think I’ve only met three actual Texans since I walked into the building.”

“And what does she do?”

“I’m not sure. Since they’re here on his visa, I don’t know if she’s allowed to work. But she can tell you about the spousal support system.”

“Sounds governmental. The SSS.”

“The Social Security Service.” Then the humor ebbed from his face, and he reached over to pat my knee. “You’re going to be fine. These are nice people. They want to meet you.”

“Right.” I couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t Wyatt and Elizabeth that worried me.

All the houses in the neighborhood were brick and stucco, set on tiny manicured lawns. We pulled into the driveway of one almost indistinguishable from our own. The neck of the wine bottle was slick from my tight grip.

Maybe this was what we needed, couple friends. But that was just another reminder that it had been my best friend, my choice, that ruined everything. I slipped a hand into Michael’s, and he gave it a little squeeze before ringing the doorbell.

Everything in the foyer was fast and familiar—shaking hands, slipping off our shoes, you have a lovely home, thank you for the wine—and then we were ushered into the kitchen, where barstools were arranged around a central island. There was a little grill in the middle surrounded by plates of veggies and sliced meat.

Elizabeth tucked a strand of smooth blond hair behind her ear. “I thought we’d do indoor hibachi.”

“Sounds good,” Michael said, and I nodded.

“Let me give you the five-cent tour.” Wyatt winked in a way that said he was playing at being a grown-up, just like we were. A fraction of tension left my shoulders.