Charlie. He considers telling her the truth: Well, Charlie, I’m waiting for my wife to walk in so I can tell her I’m in a shitload of debt. What are you doing?
Hi Charlie, he writes instead. Is everything okay?
Yes. I want to thank you for the session yesterday. I have a whole new lease on life.
I’m glad.
It’s true what the women of Chestnut Hill are writing about you on Yelp. You’re very skilled.
Annie’s engine quiets in the driveway. Thanks, he writes. That’s nice to hear. Would you like to set up a time to meet again?
Yes, I would. Tomorrow.
He glances out the window. The light is on in Annie’s car. I have some time in the morning, he writes.
I mean tomorrow night.
Annie’s car door slams. Tomorrow night? He hears Annie’s footsteps on the path outside as the porch light clicks on. “Hey handsome,” she says, stepping inside and bringing in a rush of cold air. He puts his phone in his pocket as she drops her bag on the counter. “How we doing?”
“We’re doing fine.”
She kisses him hello. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“I stopped for takeout,” she says, reaching into her bag. “Thin mints and red wine. You hungry?”
He hesitates, considering his options. He can sit down with his wife and tell her the truth, ruining his night, if not his entire life, or he can escape to the back room and talk to Charlie.
“I have some work to finish,” he says, draining the beer. “Might jump in the shower and then tackle that.”
“Okay,” Annie says. “But don’t expect any leftovers.” He kisses her forehead on the way down the hall to the bedroom, and into the master bath. He closes the door and pulls out his phone as a new message arrives.
Yes, Dr. Statler, tomorrow night.
I don’t understand, he writes.
Of course you do, Sam. Would you like me to beg?
He waits, riveted, as she types.
Because I will if you want me to.
He leans against the sink, the adrenaline rushing. Game on.
Chapter 14
“Welcome to Lowe’s. Can I help you?”
The man is wearing a blue vest with ASK ME ANYTHING printed across his chest, and I consider asking him why Sam is being so distant and cold, but instead I ask him where I can find a four-pack of Everlite door silencers.
I don’t get it. I’ve been trying my best to be understanding and patient, going back and forth between giving Sam space and trying to help him, but neither seems to be working. He’s still walking around with a long face.
But it’s okay, because I’m going to make everything better. This evening, during a special happy hour, I’m going to confront him gently, ask him to talk. He has to be open to it—he has, after all, made an entire career of encouraging people to spend time in “the muck,” as I’ve heard him call it downstairs, and what better way for us to enter the muck than over a cocktail I designed myself? Spent two hours this morning experimenting with different concoctions from the liquor bottles I discovered in Agatha Lawrence’s pantry, settling on a spiced pear martini, going out of my way to poach three pears in star anise and half a bottle of brandy. （I’ve decided to name it the Gilda, after the impending storm.）
“Here you go,” the guy in the blue smock says when we reach aisle 9J. He hands me the door silencers and I drop them in my cart, on top of the plant food and extra batteries. I smile and make my way toward the kitchen appliances, liking the energy of this place. Only in America can you buy a twelve-pack of Everlite door silencers for $4.99 and a Craftsman Dual Hydrostatic zero-turn lawn mower for $2900. I stop to examine the machine. I should buy it. It’s something I’ve always wanted, ever since I first saw my neighbor across the street in Wayne, Indiana, Craig Parker, driving his lawn mower around his front yard.
Mr. Parker was a lawyer, and Mrs. Parker volunteered in the cafeteria every Monday, selling milk and ice cream sandwiches for a quarter each, passing out gum to all of Jenny’s friends. That was their daughter—Jenny, a name I can’t say without whining. She was a cheerleader, one year ahead of me in school, and I’d stand in the window and watch her and her family sometimes. In the summer, Mr. Parker would drive his lawn mower up and down, making straight lines in the grass, while Mrs. Parker and Jenny wore matching hats and pulled weeds from the garden on the side of their house. They’d finish and disappear inside, where I imagined Jenny went to the refrigerator for a cold can of grape soda. （I know for a fact she drank grape soda. Six times I was inside their house, and each time I checked.） Theirs was the nicest and biggest house on the block, extravagant compared to the two-bedroom ranch my dad did not pay $42,000 for just to see my goddamn shoes in the middle of the living room floor.