“Not to get technical, but I don’t think this is considered wrapping.”
“Okay, Martha Stewart. Just open it.”
Inside were two hand towels, the fabric so cheap it glowed. “His” was embroidered on the blue one, “Hers” on the pink. “I don’t get it,” she said.
“They’re his-and-hers towels. Like for a bathroom.”
“Thank you for that explanation,” she said. “I mean, why are you giving me these hideous towels?”
He was starting to blush. “Is it too clever?”
“Is what too clever?”
“These towels,” he said, exasperated. “You know, his-and-hers towels? Like people who live together have in their bathroom?”
“Wait,” she said. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”
“Yes,” he said. “And so far I appear to be doing a truly bang-up job of it.”
She laughed out loud. “That’s sweet, Sam,” she said, handing back the bag and refilling her wineglass. “But no thank you.”
“No thank you?” he said. “Why not?”
“I’ve told you. I prefer my men in small doses.”
“I know,” he said. “And would you like me to explain why you’re like that?”
She set the wine bottle on the table. “Oh, would you? I love when guys explain things to me.”
He talked for five minutes—detailing how her caution in relationships stemmed from losing her parents in a tragic way at a young age, leading her to see a familial bond as threatening or, worse, dangerous. This, in turn, had led her to construct armor to keep people away: the supremely cool badass not interested enough to commit.
“Nice try, Dr. Phil,” she said when he’d finished. “But you’re wrong, and we’re canceling your show.”
“Then what is it?” Sam asked, unconvinced.
She held his gaze and then leaned back in her chair. “Okay, fine, if you want to know. Men are tedious.”
He laughed. “Is that right?”
“Don’t feel bad. It’s a cultural norm. We’ve been raising our boys to believe they need to repress their emotions. This may have made for easier sons, but it does not make for interesting men. Not in the long-term, at least. Six months, tops, that’s what I can tolerate.”
“Well, I’m different,” he said. “I’m exciting. Plus, I got a PhD in feelings. You should at least give me a chance.”
“Something smells good.” Annie startles at the sound of Franklin Sheehy’s voice, and realizes she’s letting in the cold air.
“Lasagna,” she says, closing the front door. “My mom’s recipe.” The meal she’d intended to make for Sam the night of the storm. The ricotta cheese expired yesterday, but she needed something to do, so she made it, fully aware that she’ll likely throw the whole thing in the trash. The radio on Sheehy’s hip crackles, and he cocks his head and then lowers the volume.
“Any news?” Annie asks, leading Sheehy into the living room.
“Nothing,” he says. “Strangest thing, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Sheehy says. “Unless your husband switched out his license plate—and why would he?—we’d have had a reading on his car by now.”
“I don’t get it. His car couldn’t have vanished.”
“No, it could not.” Sheehy nods. “You’re right about that.”
“I need a coffee,” she says, drained. “You want one?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
Sheehy follows her into the kitchen, where she pours them each a mug from the carafe sitting on the counter. “Looks like his father,” Sheehy says. He’s at the refrigerator, leaning down for a better look at the article pinned under a magnet.
“Twenty Questions with Sam Statler,” the adorable and ludicrous interview Sam gave the week they moved into the house. The reporter’s phone call woke them up from an afternoon nap, and Annie lay with her head on Sam’s chest as he stroked her hair and answered the woman’s questions, as charming as ever. “The top dessert in Chestnut Hill? I’m pretty sure my mom’s blueberry pie is the top dessert in the whole world.” “What do you mean you never saw West Wing? It’s the best show of all time!”
“You know Sam’s father?” Annie asks, handing Sheehy a mug. Theodore Statler. The absent larger-than-life man Sam rarely spoke about.