“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She snatches a canapé from a passing tray. “Just wishing I wasn’t married to a cheater.”
He shoots her a look of disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad about last night.”
“I’m not mad,” she says. “But I am a native English speaker, so I’m aware that geocache is a made-up word.”
“Annie.” Sam takes her gently by the shoulders and turns her to face him. “Look it up. Official Scrabble Player’s Dictionary. Fifth edition.”
She squints at him, skeptical. “How do you even know that?”
“I read it somewhere. They picked it as the word of 2014, from a contest. It beat out zen.”
“A contest? That’s how we’re adding words to the language now?” She takes a bite of the canapé, leaving a smudge of melted brie on her lip. “Reality television. Is there anything it hasn’t destroyed?”
“Well, if you’d like . . . ,” Sam whispers into her ear. “I’m happy to declare you the winner. We can find a broom closet somewhere, let you claim your prize.”
“Sorry, buddy,” Annie murmurs, softening. “But I’m here to meet my candidate.”
“You talk to her yet?” he asks, thumbing the cheese off Annie’s lip.
“I want to, but I can’t figure out what to do first,” Annie says. “Do I meet her, or do I greet her?”
“You greet her,” he says.
“No. That would be a greet-and-meet, and the invitation clearly said ‘Meet and Greet.’” There’s commotion around them, and Sam turns to see the candidate making her way into the bar area, pausing to shake hands. “I guess this is it,” Annie says, finishing her wine and handing Sam the glass. “Wish me luck.”
Sam rests an elbow on the bar as Annie walks to the back of the room and takes her place in line.
“Well, howdy neighbor.” It’s her, the blond woman he noticed when he walked in. She looks vaguely familiar, and he’s able to put it together. She’s the neighbor from Cherry Lane, with the brown house and small dog. She’s waved at him a few times from her front yard, raking leaves in that bright red coat with the logo of the university. The Big Reds. (“Like the gum?” Annie asked on the afternoon of the first home game, insisting she and Sam show their hometown pride and attend.)
“Sam Statler,” he says to the woman, extending his hand.
Her eyes grow big, and she laughs. “You’re kidding, right?” She can tell by his face that he’s not. “It’s me,” she huffs. “Sidney.”
Sidney? “Sidney Martin!” There it is. Summer, 1999. Her basement, the couch with scratchy plaid upholstery, praying like hell her father, the beefy guy with the lawn service, didn’t come downstairs for one of the beers he kept in the fridge.
“I’m Sidney Pigeon now,” she says, flashing a diamond. “Married Drew, class of ’93? Anyway, I read that profile of you in the paper. Nice photos.”
“It was the realtor’s idea,” he says, self-conscious. “She thought it would be good for business.”
“Well, it seems to be working, if the number of cars pulling in and out of that driveway are any indication. Couldn’t believe when I realized it was you across the street, in that big mansion—” Sidney’s interrupted by a peal of laughter from behind her, and she turns, noticing Annie and the candidate, leaning in close like old friends. “Looks like someone’s pinned you down,” she says. “How long you been married?”
“Thirteen weeks.”
“Thirteen weeks?” she says. “That’s awfully precise.”
“It’s a thing,” he says. “We celebrate every week.”
“Well, isn’t that adorable. Thought you’d still be single and breaking hearts.”
“Not anymore,” he says. “I’m a changed man.”
“Sure you are,” she says, in a tone he doesn’t love. “Speaking of which, do you remember . . .” Sidney nods her head toward the far wall, where the bathrooms are, and yes, he does remember. The women’s bathroom at three in the morning the night of senior prom. She wasn’t even his date. “Jody still won’t talk to me,” Sidney says, referring to the girl who was his date, the one who walked in on them. “Twenty-two years, still gives me dirty looks every time I see her at the grocery store. She really hates you.”
“Who hates you?” A woman appears next to them. She’s their age, pretty, holds two glasses of wine.
“This is Sam Statler,” Sidney says, taking one of the glasses.
“Sam Statler,” the woman says, nodding. “Of course.” She extends her free hand. “Becky. We went to high school together, but you never spoke to me.”
Sam shifts uncomfortably, praying for Annie to hurry back and save him. “I’ve been hearing good things about you,” Sidney says. “It must be crazy, listening to people’s secrets all day.” She leans in. “Tell us the truth. What’s the juiciest thing someone’s ever talked about in therapy?”
“Juiciest thing someone’s talked about,” Sam says contemplatively. “Probably an orange.”
They both stare at him a moment, silent, and then burst into laughter. Sidney slaps his arm. “You’re still as charming as ever, Sam.”
“Isn’t he though?” Annie’s back by his side. Sam slips an arm around her, relieved.
“Congratulations on nailing down Mr. Least Likely to Commit,” Sidney says.
“No, that wasn’t Sam,” Becky corrects her. “That was Mike Hammill. Sam was voted Class Heartbreaker. Right, Sam?”
“That’s right,” he says, aware of Annie’s gaze. “And don’t forget prom king, two years in a row.”
“Oh please,” Annie says under her breath.
“What’s it like being married to a therapist?” Sidney asks, addressing Annie. “He must read you like a book.”
“Yes, he does,” Annie says. “But one of those books where the woman is crazy and you can’t trust a thing she says.”
They’re interrupted by the sound of someone clinking a glass, and the crowd begins to disperse, moving toward the front of the room, where the candidate is poised to speak. “Listen, there’s a bunch of us who get together sometimes,” Sidney says, in a hushed tone. “Dinner Club, we call it. Mandy, Ash. You remember them, Sam.”
Sam nods, though he hasn’t the faintest idea who she means.
“You should join us.”
“That’d be fun,” Annie says. “Sam will bake cookies.”
The women smile and walk away, toward the candidate, who is calling for people’s attention. Sam reaches for his drink, seeing the expression on Annie’s face. “What?” he whispers.
“‘Probably an orange’?”
“You heard that?” he asks, smirking.
“Yes, I heard that.”
“It was funny.”
She rolls her eyes again and walks past him, toward a guy with a tray of champagne. “Okay, heartbreaker. Whatever you say.”