She reached me and gently grabbed my hands, and held them between us. My stomach rose.

“Hi,” I said.

She leaned in and moved her lips next to my ear. Her cheek brushed my skin and the hair on my neck rose.

“Are you staying?” she whispered.

“I…don’t know,” I whispered back.

She pulled back and smiled. Then, releasing one of my hands and holding on to the other, she led me across the room.

11

I met them all that night in the mountains. I met Damon and Pilov and Gretchen, all seated on a loveseat in the corner and playing guitar. I met Stephanie and Willa, and their Finnish friend Elias. I met Ryan and Danielle, who informed me I’d met them before.

“At the Brewery,” she said.

“In Boulder,” he added. “We talked about New York.”

I met this ragtag group of friends, acquaintances, whatever they were, and they accepted me. And I met Vince, but not until later.

Suzanne and I sat down on a firm couch, across from three of them. They passed a joint to Suzanne.

“So,” Willa said, “you’re from Boulder?”

“As of a few weeks ago, yes,” I said.

The man sitting next to her produced a beer and handed it to me. I thanked him.

“And before that?” Stephanie asked.

“Julian drove all the way out from New York,” Suzanne said.

The three looked impressed and murmured congratulations.

“What’s that, like a twenty-hour drive?” Willa asked.

“Twenty-five,” I said.

They murmured again. Suzanne offered me the joint, I declined.

She touched my hand. Didn’t try to hold it, or caress it. Just reached over and touched it. Her red hair was straight tonight, and it fell over her shoulders softly, easily. She touched my hand in a simple way and looked me in the eye. I looked back, then away, across the room at nothing. I felt excitement and guilt. I hadn’t done anything, wasn’t planning on doing anything, but still there was guilt. I still felt connected to my life. Still felt an obligation to Megan, regardless of her seemingly swift ability to move on. Despite Brent. I accepted then this was something I would feel for a long time.

I felt excitement and guilt, in equal amounts. These fed each other.

There were more beers handed to me, and later there was music. The trio playing guitar began a bluegrass song, and others joined in singing. Suzanne was the loudest, because she was the best. I had not expected such a sweet voice to come out of that mouth, but she sang confidently, and without missing a note.

The songs continued for a half hour, six or seven voices chiming in through the haze of cigarettes and pot smoke. The joint made its way back to me, and this time I accepted. It had been since college. I inhaled briefly, careful not to overdo it, and sat back and listened.

It was after the last song of the evening, a mellow, somber tune, when I met Vince. He materialized to my right, hands in pockets and a smile on his face, and quietly watched until they were done singing. He was not just one of this gang. He was something else.

The song finished and everyone applauded. A few laughed, and someone turned a stereo on.

“Julian?” he said to me, extending a hand.

I shook it. “Yes.”

“I’m Vince. Pleased to meet you. This is my place.”

I stood up, realizing for the first time that this house belonged to someone. “Thank you for having me.”

“Of course,” he said. “Suzanne…speaks highly of you.”

He flashed a smile her way, and she smiled back. He was a big man, over six feet tall with a thick build. His hair was short and blonde, and a full beard covered his face. There were wrinkles around his eyes.

His voice was calm, and strong. “If there’s anything you need, do let me know. Good to have you.” And with that, he returned to the ether.

“This is his party?” I asked Suzanne.

“His party? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Like, he threw the party. This is his house.”

“Julian,” she said. “No. The party belongs to no one. And party—that’s not the word for it. A gathering among like-minded friends. A soiree.”

“Uh huh,” I said.

“There is no host. Vince, he’s just Vince. He’s a good man, a great friend, and yes, he does own this house and is very generous with his time and space. That’s all there is to it.”

“Where did he go?”

“I’m never sure. That’s just Vince. It seems he always has some business to attend to.”

I took a drink of beer, feeling good and buzzed now. I let my mind wander. A bunch of strangers, fairly odd ones, in a house in the mountains, hours from the nearest familiar face. There was a time I would’ve declined the invitation. There was a time I would have felt threatened, by the unknown. But I knew now that was stilted and unnecessary. It was just a party. Or, soiree. A collection of friends enjoying a Friday night, playing music and talking and getting fucked up. And I had been invited, because one of them was interested in me romantically. And I had gone, because I was bored, and intrigued, and seeking some sort of fellowship and interaction and excitement.

The house was big. From the entrance it seemed modest, but the living room opened up into a large open space, and now I noticed halls. There were two long hallways off the main room in which we sat, plus a staircase leading to the basement. It was rustic, but not shoddy, like a mountain chateau. And now I realized why she’d asked if I was staying. Everyone was staying.

One by one, or sometimes two, the people of the mountain soiree disappeared, dispersing down one of the hallways or the stairs, without so much as a “goodnight.” I drank beer and watched it happen, made small talk with those who were left, until there were none. The spacious living room was deserted, except for Suzanne and I, sitting on the couch in silence.

I turned to her. “Guess it’s time to hit the road.”

“You’re not driving,” she said with conviction. “You’re drunk.”

She was right. Simply, quietly, she again took my hand, and led me down one of the halls. We walked to the end and entered the last room on the left, and when the door closed, she kissed me for the first time.

12

After my last promotion at Wilson Keen, I worked like a damn dog. With the extra money and new title came a heap of new responsibility, all of it in addition to my previous duties. The work was never finished; there was always something else to do, some report to finish or some godforsaken document to look over. I was in by six every morning, and came home late in the evenings, well after the sun set.

One day in the dead of winter, I was spared. My supervisor walked into my office at 4:15 p.m.

“Go home, Meyer,” he said without greeting.

Hunched over a heap of documents, I looked up at him and motioned to the mess on my desk. “Can’t,” I said.

“It’ll be there tomorrow,” he said without compassion. “You look like shit. Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Then he walked out.

I considered staying anyway, because that was what I was conditioned to do, but it was a clear order, and I desperately needed it.

Feeling relieved, exhausted, and a little guilty, I rode in the back of a cab. It was a bitterly cold day, I remember that, and the sun was already going down.

Megan would appreciate this. We saw each other so little during the week, it would be nice to have one evening together, even if it only meant ordering takeout and watching TV until I fell asleep on the couch at nine. She got annoyed with how much I worked, but she and I both knew it was necessary. It would be nice to surprise her. It would be nice to give something to my marriage, after years of taking from it.