“A wise, bruised soul,” Paul repeated.
Colin’s “um, no” when Jen had asked if he wasn’t going to Texas for Christmas had been sardonic, like he’d rather be touring Superfund sites.
She had a picture of his parents that was admittedly very stereotyped—Jell-O salads and plastic-covered La-Z-Boys and Colin hiding behind a hay bale, strumming the Cure on his guitar and being told to stop listening to that devil music.
He wasn’t as religious as Nan, that was for sure. And while Jen knew he was a student at the seminary, she wasn’t sure how ardently he believed.
“I bet he’s like, a real Christian, you know? It’s not about the politics or the repression, but about the principles. Maybe he’s asexual too,” Jen said. “There’s an entire generational movement now. I read an article. They’re all above mortal urges.”
“I think you’ve pegged him,” Paul said. “A real Christian asexual with a bruised soul.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“What?”
“Condescending.”
Paul arched an eyebrow. “I’m not sure why we have to spend this entire meal talking about Colin’s romantic preferences. We pay him enough to not have to think about him in our free time.”
“It’s not about the money with him.”
Whenever Jen took out her wallet at the end of each week, Colin blushed and ducked his head and did one of his nervous tics—Jen knew them all by now—the sleeve chew, the hair push back behind the ears （always repeated at a tortured double-time clip）。 Jen had started leaving the money in a drawer to avoid the entire dance.
“That’s pretty naive,” Paul said, “it’s always about the money.”
“It’s really not.” She popped the lamb bite in her mouth. “Oh, this is good.”
“Maybe it’s not about the money. Maybe you’re the appeal.”
Jen, who’d been taking a sip, swallowed wrong, ending up sputtering. “Um. No,” she said, after a cough.
After sixteen years of marriage, Paul still thought Jen—who had （and she was being objective here） only become older and slower and nuttier and more square-shaped through the years—inexplicably desirable.
There was no logic to it: Jen had just been lucky enough to marry someone equal parts devoted and stubborn. This, she had come to learn, was no small thing. Some of the book club women talked as if one hundred percent of their romantic moments came from the books they read.
“I’m changing the subject,” she said.
“Thank god.”
“The vandal struck again last night, and this is actually pretty creepy. He attacked an inflatable snowman on Wildcat Court. Like, took scissors and snipped off its little carrot nose and then stabbed the body until it deflated.”
“Jeez.”
“Agreed, but at this point I don’t know which is more disturbing: the vandal or Janine’s obsession with him. Thirty-seven texts.” Jen held up her phone to Paul and scrolled through Janine’s endless group-broadcast panic. “You know what I keep thinking?”
Paul shook his head.
“Whoever this kid’s parents are, they’ll probably just shrug it off. They’ll make a deal with the police, or whomever, that’s it. They’re not going to be up all night, unable to sleep, worried that they’re about to unleash a psychopath on the world.”
Jen cut herself another piece of Paul’s lamb, stabbed it onto her fork.
“I don’t know about that.”
When Jen railed against other clueless parents, Paul frequently reminded her that everyone had their shit to go through.
But this was a lie. Jen had been to enough book clubs, scrolled through enough social media to understand that she was having a fundamentally different parenting experience from anyone else.
She’d gladly trade her vital sex life for a little more boring, a little more normal. The lamb in Jen’s mouth, which she had been chewing angrily, suddenly tasted like straw. She looked down at her plate.
“I should just count my blessings that Abe isn’t the vandal,” she said.
At the funny look on Paul’s face, Jen felt a ping of warning vibrate inside her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What.”
“It hasn’t crossed your mind that burning the Thankfulness Tree might possibly derive from the same great criminal mind that brought you last year’s boys’ bathroom trash-can fire?”