“Jesus Christ.” I took out my phone and walked into the house, leaving them by the door. I began to compose a mental list of everything I’d need internet for over the weekend. Item 1: Everything. “I don’t even know how you people function,” I grumbled.

My mother followed me as I paced around the house, looking up the number for our corporate help desk.

“Klasko & Fitch technology help center. This is Arthur. How may I help you?”

“Hi, Arthur. This is Alex Vogel in the New York office. I’m in Connecticut, a couple hours outside the city, for the holiday, and I don’t have Wi-Fi.”

“What are they going to do about it?” Sam asked, more to my mother than to me, and she nodded, as if I was being ridiculous.

“Oh, you’re able to send a messenger with a Myfi? By eleven is perfect.” I gave Sam an exaggerated wink.

“No. I didn’t know that was possible . . . Yes, I have it here . . . No, I’m calling you from my personal device, my work phone is in my hand . . . okay . . . okay . . . okay. Now what? . . . Really!? I had no idea. You’re a genius. Hold on, let me see if it works.” I opened my computer and put my phone next to it.

“What are you doing?” my mother whispered. I hated when she whispered just because I was on the phone, as though her question was less intrusive that way.

“I’m using my work phone as a personal hotspot. I didn’t realize I could do that.” My mom nodded, pretending to understand, then busied herself offering Sam food.

“I’m in! Four bars. Thanks again. You’re the greatest. Have a very happy holiday.” I hung up with a smile.

“Phew!” My mother sighed. “What can I fix you for dinner? Sam’s going to have salad and chicken.”

“I’m not hungry,” I said, not looking up from my screen. In truth, I was starving, but few things gave my mother as much pleasure as feeding people, and denying her that pleasure was a way of punishing her for my own frustration about the internet. “Where’s Dad?”

“He’s in the cellar, picking some bottles for the weekend. He’ll be up in—”

As if on cue, my father entered the room carrying a crate of wine, which he shoved onto the kitchen island before enveloping me in his arms. I buried my head in his chest and took a deep breath.

“What is it?” My father pried me off of him and looked at me. I immediately noticed the fraying of his collar, as well as his ill-fitting jeans and mismatched socks. Though I wished they didn’t bother me, I cringed slightly.

“Nothing! I’m just tired. My brain hurts.”

Back at my laptop, I kept my eyes laser-focused on my work so I didn’t have to see the sideways glances Sam and my parents exchanged as my mom threw together dinner from a mixture of leftovers and whatever she had on hand. I wanted a fresh salad, something light so I wouldn’t get sleepy while working, or maybe a piece of fish, but she placed store-bought chicken cutlets and lettuce drenched in ranch dressing before us. Sam and my father’s forks nearly collided as they both reached for the chicken, but I excused myself from the table without having any.

“I’ll make you whatever you like!” my mother called after me. “I just didn’t have the energy to cook another whole meal with thirty people coming tomorrow!”

“I said, I’m just not hungry,” I called over my shoulder. I needed to make an excuse to get back to the city, to civilization, after dinner tomorrow. I could not possibly spend the weekend there. How had I ever spent eighteen years there? The lively conversation between Sam and my parents tapered off to faint whispers, undoubtedly about me. When I logged on to the Klasko system, I had forty-one missed emails, all of them regarding Peter’s deal.

I closed my computer at a decent hour—midnight, I think, though I had forgotten to look at the clock on my screen. Ever since I’d moved out for college, I could never remember which clocks in my parents’ house were set to which time. Some of them hadn’t been turned back an hour for daylight savings, some were set fifteen minutes ahead to encourage my mother to be on time, and some seemed to run slow. When I wrapped up for the evening, all I knew was that it was late enough that Sam had already gone to bed in my old room. I made my way quietly up the staircase in the dark house, avoiding the creaky step with the graceful hop-over I had perfected so beautifully in high school that no amount of beer consumption would cause me to land on it. Nonetheless, my father came out of the master bedroom and met me at the top of the stairs.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Give your ol’ man a sec.” He pointed at the stairs, and I followed him down and toward the kitchen table. “How’re you doing, sweetheart?” He watched me closely, looking protective. The Klasko & Fitch T-shirt I’d given him when I got my offer hung loosely around his neck above the hospital scrub pants he always wore to bed.

“I’m good! I was just stressed that you didn’t have internet.” I looked around the kitchen, at the outdated cabinets and the slightly peeling paint that I had never taken note of before. I suddenly wanted to cry, not so much because those things were there, but because I saw them, and cared about them now. I picked at an imaginary hangnail. “You don’t have to wear that shirt just because it was free.”

My father looked down at his chest. “I don’t wear this because it’s free. I wear it because I’m proud of you.” I really didn’t want to cry, but my eyes welled slightly. “We know you’re working so hard. And stressed.” My dad put his hand on mine. I looked at his thick palm and then up to his warm brown eyes.

My tears spilled out from the outer corners of my eyes and down my face. Was I losing myself to this job?

“I’m just stressed. Not sad,” I attempted to assure him, wiping at my chin and steadying my breath. My palm was dripping wet. Maybe I was sad. “I’m looking forward to not working tomorrow.”

“We love you, and we’re so proud of you. And worried about you! Go get some sleep.” He leaned over and kissed the top of my head, and I ran upstairs again and crawled under the covers beside Sam. The mattress below me felt lumpy and old, and I missed my bed in the city—the one I had picked out with the plush pillow top. I could tell by Sam’s breathing that he was still awake, and I sighed contentedly, indicating that I was on the verge of sleep to end-run any desire he had to talk to me.

“Babe?”

Shit.

“Hi love.” I snuggled up to him, hoping he would appreciate the sweetness in my voice enough to leave me alone. He inhaled deeply. Please don’t start a fight right now. Please. I suddenly remembered I had something to distract him, and hopped out of bed. “I have a surprise!” I turned on a light and riffled through my weekend bag, pulling out a small square baby blue box.

“I almost forgot about it. It’s nothing. It’s small. But I saw them and thought of you.” I handed Sam the Tiffany’s box, and he sat up in bed, confused but smiling, and opened it. His smile faded and his brow furrowed.

“They’re cuff links!” I explained, then added, “They’re returnable.”

Sam plastered a smile on his face and nodded. “I’m not returning them! I love them. Thank you.” I could hear the forced enthusiasm in his tone. My throat closed a bit. He’d never wear cuff links. It was a stupid gift. He never even wore collared shirts. I turned off the light so he wouldn’t see my expression, and stood for a moment with my hand on the switch, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness, before making my way to the bed.

It occurred to me, there in the quiet, warm blackness of suburbia, that I was less disappointed by the fact that he didn’t like my gift than by the fact that he wasn’t the type of man who wore cuff links. I knew it was a ridiculous feeling, but I felt it. I wanted him to have important meetings, and to care about looking good for them. And it had nothing to do with success; it had to do with the fact that I was surrounded by people who wore them, who cared to wear them. The start-up and tech worlds frowned upon suits and shoe shines and designer labels and everything I had begun to feel familiar around and drawn toward.

I allowed myself to stand next to the bed a moment longer, then finally crawled in next to him again.

“Thank you for the cuff links,” he tried to reassure me. I put my head on his shoulder. Even if he hated the gift, I was hoping I’d been successful in waylaying a conversation about my recent schedule.

“We have to get better at this,” he whispered.

No such luck.

He stared at the ceiling, with his arm around me, his thumb drawing a circle on my shoulder.

At what? “I know,” I said, even though I didn’t. “I’m so sorry I had to work tonight. But now I’m free tomorrow!” I forced a yawn.

“It’s not fair to me or your family or anybody that you’re in the office so much, and when you’re not in the office, you’re either working or worrying that you should be working.”

It’s fair to my clients. “Sam, this was sort of the deal. Remember? A few years of hard work—”