“James Sommers,” he said, smiling in a way that Jessica would never forget.

So many times in the past year she’d used the phrase “love at first sight.” It sounded corny, but she had no other words to capture the overwhelming sense of inevitability of meeting James. Time and again she thought of that quote from Wuthering Heights, how Catherine described Heathcliff as more herself than she was, and that whatever souls are made of, theirs were the same. That’s how Jessica felt within thirty seconds of meeting James.

She led him through the space, trying to remember the tear sheet’s description of the origin of the marble surrounding the fireplace and the brand of tile in the master bath. Fortunately, the place sold itself; their walk-through lasted less than twenty minutes. During that time, however, the heavens had opened outside. By the time they returned to the street, it was hailing, chunks of ice hitting the pavement hard enough to activate car alarms into a cacophony of wails.

Jessica suggested that they escape the weather by going inside the Starbucks next door. When the hail let up an hour later, they parted ways. Jessica couldn’t sense whether James was seriously considering the loft and had no reason to think that she had made any personal impression on him. But two days later, he called her and made no pretense about his interest in both.

Wayne wasn’t nearly as na?ve as people thought. He knew that attending a party to celebrate his ex-wife’s first year of wedded bliss with another man made him the marital equivalent of a sideshow freak. And yet, here he was, all dressed up on a Saturday night, leaving Forest Hills, Queens, and riding the 7 train into Manhattan for that very purpose.

Wayne’s mother often said that her husband was “a hard man.” Wayne supposed it was a more charitable description than “angry alcoholic,” although the latter was more accurate.

Somewhere along the line, Wayne’s father had decided that the world had betrayed him. Archibald Fiske was smart enough to know that his true adversaries—his boss, the man at the service station who told him their Buick needed a new transmission, or the neighbor who didn’t pull his garbage cans in from the street quickly enough—would never stand for his abuse. So, rather than risk a counterpunch, ole Archie took out his frustrations on people who would not fight back: his wife and son.

“He’s just a man of his time” was another of his mother’s efforts to justify her husband’s rage, as if every male born in the decade after World War II thought nothing of striking the woman he had sworn to love until death, or striking a child who had done nothing wrong but be born. “You’ll be different, though,” Wayne’s mother always said to him.

Wayne’s entire life had been an effort to fulfill his mother’s wish and be nothing like Archibald Fiske. It was only recently that he had come to understand that by pursuing this quest with such single-mindedness, he had failed to devote the necessary time to being Wayne Fiske.

The irony was not lost on him that, by making this mistake, he had inadvertently become hard himself. Sometimes he even drank too much. In fact, at his low points, Wayne believed that the only meaningful difference between him and his father might be that Wayne hid his demons better. Whereas his father would lose his temper over nothing at all, Wayne couldn’t remember the last time he’d not been in control.

It was a skill he would need to call upon this evening. In fact, he could barely think of a more un–Archibald Fiske thing to do than smile and drink a toast to Jessica and James’s happiness.

Owen’s mother had told him that he could invite a friend to the party. “A boy or a girl,” she’d said in that I’m-so-woke way that she sometimes tried on.

Owen said he’d think about it, the phrase he used whenever he meant no but didn’t want to engage further on the topic. It was inconceivable that he would subject any of his friends to the spectacle taking place this evening. Instead, he would fly solo for an hour, smile at his parents’ friends, and then retreat into his room the moment his mother granted him such dispensation.

He was mentally preparing for the evening by blasting Pop Smoke’s “War” through his headphones when a knock on his door interrupted the jam.

“What is it?” he said.

His mom stepped inside. “Just checking on you.” She looked him over approvingly. “My, my. You clean up nice, Owen.”

In point of fact, Owen thought he looked ridiculous. The blazer his mother had bought for him to wear for the occasion was way too big across the shoulders and too short in the sleeves. On top of that, his hair didn’t go well with a sports-jacket-and-trousers look. It was now past his shoulders, long with tight curls, making him look like a seventeenth-century French monarch. In tonight’s outfit, the overall effect was like when people put hats on dogs: it just didn’t make any sense.

“Nikes? Really?” she said when she noticed his feet.

“The shoes I wore to Aunt Emma’s wedding were too small.”

“James’s shoes will probably fit you,” she said. “He’ll give you a pair of loafers or something.”

“Please, Mom,” he said, in the whiny voice that sometimes worked.

She considered his plea for a moment, then smiled, settling the issue. “Okay. If wearing sneakers is going to make you happy, far be it from me to stand in your way.”