Before Alexa could answer Cam, Mookie did his thing, hammering the hell out of the ball, and it went high and deep, over the Green Monster. That ball was a goner. The bartenders started high-fiving the patrons, and the patrons high-fived each other. One of the twentysomethings Alexa had beaten to the seat was off his stool and heading over. He hugged her. She hugged him back: there were no hard feelings, because of Mookie. The guy high-fived Cam.

But underneath the thrum of happiness, Alexa could feel her heart skipping along like a frightened animal.

It turned out that the brickle pie involved ice cream covered by Heath bar and marshmallow, all of which sat on top of a cookie crust and were covered by some sort of “brickle sauce.” It was sort of horrifying and sort of delicious, but after one bite Alexa couldn’t eat any more. Cam’s words felt like they were taking up all the room in her body.

There could be people out there. Looking for people who know things.

“I want this to be the only time we talk about this,” said Cam when they parted at her Jeep. He looked extra cute when he was serious but his eyes weren’t on her at all; he was staring straight ahead, at the traffic on Route 110.

“But—” said Alexa.

“No,” said Cam. “No but. That’s it, this was the only time. I’m sorry, but it has to be that way.”

“Okay,” Alexa said. She believed that Cam meant this, but she also believed that he had not yet been introduced to the full powers of Alexa Thornhill; if she needed to talk about it, if she had something to say, surely he would change his policy and listen.

“Good night, Alexa,” he said formally, even dipping his head a little bit.

She thought about saying nothing at all (because who did he think he was? making her feel bad about wanting help? making her feel terrible for sharing information?) but her good manners prevailed and she said, “Thank you for the lovely dinner,” and she climbed into her Jeep and closed the door, hard.

Alexa Thornhill, will you please rate for us the evening you had with Cameron Hartwell? Did dinner at the Sylvan Street Grill meet or exceed your expectations? On a scale of one to ten, how likely are you to seek this kind of experience again?

Fuck off, she thought.

42.

Rebecca

Rebecca stood in the doorway to the living room, looking at Katie and Morgan, who were fast asleep on the couch, the television playing in the background. Neither had had the foresight or perhaps the desire to lie all the way down so they were slumped toward each other, heads lolling forward, looking more like victims of a double homicide than like co-viewers of a Netflix movie. In fact just now they looked almost like sisters, even though in daylight they bore very little resemblance to each other: Morgan small and straight-haired, elfin, except lacking perhaps in the grace that descriptor implied, and Katie sturdier, curlier, with more heft. When Alexa had come home she’d gone straight upstairs. The old Alexa might have come in and sat down and watched a little bit of whatever Morgan was watching.

Rebecca switched off the TV, and now she could hear a soft knocking at the front door. She looked at her watch—it was nine thirty; this would be Sherri, coming to pick up Katie on her way home from work.

“They’re both asleep,” she said, opening the door. “Come in.” She opened the door wider, and Sherri stepped into the foyer. Ponytail, khakis, blue polo shirt with the derma-you insignia over the pocket.

“Sorry,” Sherri whispered. “I actually thought I might get out a little early tonight, but they kept me all the way through.” She reached up and tightened her ponytail by pulling the two halves of it in opposite directions. It was a funny gesture—more that of a high school track athlete than of a suburban mother.

“Why don’t we let them sleep a little while?” Rebecca said. She led Sherri to the living room and pointed at the couch. “You wouldn’t know it by how they’re sitting, but I think they’re actually comfortable. I’d hate to disturb them. You could stay for a drink? I’ve got some really nice tequila just begging to be mixed with seltzer and a little bit of lime juice. We’ll sit outside, by the pool.” Sherri hesitated and Rebecca said, “Come on! Please? You’d be doing me a favor; I’ll drink far too much if I open this tequila when I’m on my own.”

“Okay,” said Sherri finally. She set her lips together and nodded her head sharply, as though giving herself permission. “Okay, I will. That sounds really nice. Thank you.”

Glasses, ice, limes, seltzer, bottle: together they carried everything out to the pool and set it up on the small table that sat between two lounge chairs, and Rebecca mixed the drinks. A brief evening shower had driven out the day’s humidity, leaving the air crisp and almost cool. The moon was a pale, distant wafer, and there were a few stars scattered about. From the far edge of the lawn Rebecca could hear the gurgling of the small stone fountain Peter had installed for her for Mother’s Day three years before. He’d been so proud of that fountain—she’d always said she wanted a water feature for the yard. He had wanted to get a little gnome to stand beside the fountain “for good luck,” but she’d thought the gnome was creepy and had put her foot down. Now she wished she hadn’t been such a grump about it. If someone had only told her, “He’ll be dead in less than two years!” of course she would have let him get the gnome.