She nodded, trailed her fingers along the leather sofa, and examined the painting above the fireplace, which she’d bought herself from an artist in Bushwick before leaving New York. “What a shitty day I’ve had,” she said. “Any chance you want to pour me a drink?”
She was naked a half hour later, didn’t even make it to the bed.
“The chase,” that’s what she calls it, introduced him to it early on in their relationship, at the wedding he’d been shopping for at Brooks Brothers. She approached him at the dessert table as the evening drew to a close, introduced herself as if they’d never met. Her name was Lily, she said. She was a distant cousin of the groom’s, visiting from Boise, where she raised sheep and sold hats she knitted herself. He played along, offered to share a cab with her. She chatted with the driver, telling him she’d never been to the city before, never seen so many people in one place, Sam’s hand up her skirt the whole time.
It quickly became a regular thing. The hot waitress. The accountant with a dark side. She was astonishingly good at it: surprising him, imagining different characters, role-playing them to perfection, leading Sam in a slow dance toward the inevitable finale: mind-blowing sex with a stranger of sorts.
Annie Potter, his gloriously sexy, brilliant wife.
He waits until the older couple walks away before crossing the room and approaching her. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, kissing her.
“Are you late?” she asks, avoiding eye contact. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She snatches a canapé from a passing tray. “Just wishing I wasn’t married to a cheater.”
He shoots her a look of disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad about last night.”
“I’m not mad,” she says. “But I am a native English speaker, so I’m aware that geocache is a made-up word.”
“Annie.” Sam takes her gently by the shoulders and turns her to face him. “Look it up. Official Scrabble Player’s Dictionary. Fifth edition.”
She squints at him, skeptical. “How do you even know that?”
“I read it somewhere. They picked it as the word of 2014, from a contest. It beat out zen.”
“A contest? That’s how we’re adding words to the language now?” She takes a bite of the canapé, leaving a smudge of melted brie on her lip. “Reality television. Is there anything it hasn’t destroyed?”
“Well, if you’d like . . . ,” Sam whispers into her ear. “I’m happy to declare you the winner. We can find a broom closet somewhere, let you claim your prize.”
“Sorry, buddy,” Annie murmurs, softening. “But I’m here to meet my candidate.”
“You talk to her yet?” he asks, thumbing the cheese off Annie’s lip.
“I want to, but I can’t figure out what to do first,” Annie says. “Do I meet her, or do I greet her?”
“You greet her,” he says.
“No. That would be a greet-and-meet, and the invitation clearly said ‘Meet and Greet.’” There’s commotion around them, and Sam turns to see the candidate making her way into the bar area, pausing to shake hands. “I guess this is it,” Annie says, finishing her wine and handing Sam the glass. “Wish me luck.”
Sam rests an elbow on the bar as Annie walks to the back of the room and takes her place in line.
“Well, howdy neighbor.” It’s her, the blond woman he noticed when he walked in. She looks vaguely familiar, and he’s able to put it together. She’s the neighbor from Cherry Lane, with the brown house and small dog. She’s waved at him a few times from her front yard, raking leaves in that bright red coat with the logo of the university. The Big Reds. （“Like the gum?” Annie asked on the afternoon of the first home game, insisting she and Sam show their hometown pride and attend.） “Sam Statler,” he says to the woman, extending his hand.
Her eyes grow big, and she laughs. “You’re kidding, right?” She can tell by his face that he’s not. “It’s me,” she huffs. “Sidney.”
Sidney? “Sidney Martin!” There it is. Summer, 1999. Her basement, the couch with scratchy plaid upholstery, praying like hell her father, the beefy guy with the lawn service, didn’t come downstairs for one of the beers he kept in the fridge.