Chapter 1
Bennett
“So . . . New Year’s Eve. It’s finally here.” Bennett looked at Olivia, who despite the early-ish hour was chopping scallions
at the kitchen counter barefoot, in a pencil skirt, her blouse untucked, her dark curly hair gathered back in a clip. She
didn’t respond right away, but he knew she heard him because she shifted her weight. She always shifted her weight when she
was thinking.
Damn, he loved looking at his wife. He had ever since he walked into Art History 101 and sat behind the pale girl with the
stormy hair and the stunning shoulders. Phelps had scoffed. Really? You moved all the way to Bloomington, Indiana, and you’re spending thousands of dollars so you can look at the back
of this chick’s neck while some asshole tells you that da Vinci was a pretty talented guy?
Whatever. Phelps took it all back when Bennett finally introduced him to Olivia—incidentally, at their first New Year’s party,
back in 2005. Phelps pulled Bennett aside, handed him a shot, and said, Well done, Son of the Rust Belt.
“It is indeed December thirty-first,” Olivia finally said, deadpan. Her chopping increased in intensity.
Bennett cleared his throat. Olivia had a way of . . . well . . . killing a conversation. Decapitating it, actually. Of course, she had pointed out recently that he was in the habit of making statements that didn’t require an answer. He supposed what he’d really meant to do was coax some
expression of enthusiasm from her about tonight. But he rallied. He had learned, after twelve years of marriage, to always
rally.
“Phelps just texted me a picture of all the ingredients for tonight’s dinner,” said Bennett. “He seriously went all out. Want
to see?” He reached toward his back pocket for his phone.
“Mmmm,” said Olivia. “Not right now, I’m kind of in the middle of . . . Hey, can you see if we have fresh ginger?” She was
prepping dinner early to save her parents the trouble when they arrived to watch the kids around four o’clock.
“Sure.” Bennett rummaged in the crisper of the stainless steel fridge, lifting out bell peppers, onions, and one mushy cucumber
that had been rolling around the bottom. Aha! Victory. “Moldy,” he announced, holding up the tan-and-blue stub.
“I’ll cut that part off.” Olivia whisked it to the cutting board. “What do you think? Rice, or should we do those noodles
Norah likes?”
“Noodles.” When the kids ate rice, it ended up all over the floor, and it was impossible to clean up. Even though it would
technically be Olivia’s parents’ problem, you had to stay in the good graces of your only local option for free babysitting.
“Could you pull those out?” she said. “I think they’re behind the marinara jars.”
He got the noodles while she enacted a furious mince on the de-molded ginger.
When the paper invitation from Phelps arrived at the beginning of the month, Bennett hadn’t discounted that Olivia might out-and-out refuse to go.
The last party, five years ago, had been a shitstorm in more ways than one.
The year that followed ended up being Bennett’s personal Year from Hell, though Olivia—hopefully—had no idea.
And even though he could imagine why Olivia might have cold feet, he hoped she’d be willing, like Bennett was, to leave the past in the past and move forward.
Wasn’t that the whole point of celebrating the New Year?
Fresh start, new leaf, et cetera, et cetera?
After some hemming and hawing, she’d finally agreed with Bennett that they couldn’t say no, and Bennett RSVP’d. But they’d
barely talked about the party since.
Bennett slid the noodles onto the counter next to her other ingredients and pressed on.
“So aren’t you even a little bit excited? About tonight?”
“Um . . .” Olivia’s hair obscured her face from Bennett’s view. “I guess.”
With a sweep of her chef’s knife, she sent the ginger flying into the bowl where she was working on the Thai-inspired marinade
for the chicken. It was one of the few meals all three kids liked. Well . . . tolerated. The only meal they actually liked was Kraft Mac & Cheese, which Olivia was categorically opposed to serving more than once a month. She was raised on
what she called “real food,” wholesomely cooked, unlike Bennett, who was raised on boxes and cans, resentfully cooked.
“Yeah . . . well, I’m excited,” he said. “It’s been so long since we were all together. When’s the last time we even talked to Will? I just want
us to have a good time, you know? Kick back. Relax. Catch up. I know Phelps is planning a game too, but he won’t tell me what.
He gave me one hint. Violent Santa. I wonder what that could mean . . .”
“Huhmm,” said Olivia.
Bennett scratched the back of his neck, as if he could remove the little scab of irritation that was forming. Sure, Olivia
would never be Miss Party Person, he knew that, he accepted that, and they both had their own demons to deal with, but Bennett
was a jump-in-with-both-feet kind of guy, and he wouldn’t mind a little more buy-in from his wife. A little joint anticipation.
Was that too much to ask for?
“Would it kill you to . . . I don’t know . . . be a little more positive?” he finally said.
Olivia spun with breathtaking speed, knife in hand. “I’ve been up since five in the morning, Bennett.” A tremble of emotion
laced her voice. “I prepped for a meeting, had an hour-long Zoom call with the East Coast, did the girls’ hair, and I’ve nearly
finished getting dinner ready, all before nine a.m. I’m sorry if I’m not expressing appropriate levels of enthusiasm.”
Bennett felt himself soften. It was that tremble of feeling in her voice. That vulnerable shake that reminded him that under
all his wife’s cool guardedness and poise, she still had feelings.
“You’re right,” he said. Of course she was tense. She wasn’t on winter break like he was, and he hadn’t even offered to help
with dinner. “I’m the jerk. Hey, once you’re done with the chicken, why don’t you go upstairs? I’ll clean up down here and
manage the kids. You can just . . . you know . . . de-stress, take a shower, pack for tonight . . . whatever you need to do.”
He curled his stockinged feet against the cold tile floor as he awaited his wife’s response. Their small Chicago house was
cold, but their gas bills had been high, so they’d agreed to keep it at sixty-five. God, sometimes he missed the pre-kids
days of the tiny apartment in Rogers Park, by Chicago’s magnificent lakeshore, with its excessive radiator heat. They used
to walk around in shorts and tanks, even in the dead of winter. Once, Olivia waltzed around in a bikini. He remembered tugging
the wet string of it loose in the shower, and how the fabric peeled away slowly before falling with a soggy slop on the floor—
“Dada,” barked Alex, their two-year-old.
Curly-headed little punk, always appearing from out of nowhere.
They could smell conflict, the kids. As soon as he and Olivia had any tiny disagreement, one or another of them was sure to show up.
Oh, well. As Olivia turned back to the cutting board, Bennett swung Alex up into his arms, relishing the weight of him and that ineffable baby smell Alex still carried in the crook of his neck.
The other two kids were watching Frozen in the living room, a rare concession from Olivia, who had strong feelings about screen time. He could hear the faint strains
of a musical number. Ah. “Fixer Upper.” He vaguely sang along under his breath. Yup, you could say he knew a thing or two
about love being a force that was both powerful and strange . . .
“Dada pickee-dup me!” said Alex, jiggling against Bennett’s arm. Was he sounding a little congested?
“I did pick you up, bud. Good job using your words,” Bennett said, gathering him close. A tiny rivulet of snot was running
down Alex’s face. Bennett whipped a tissue from the box by the fruit bowl and wiped it off as he addressed his wife. “Hey,
did Alex get his flu shot last week?”
“No, the doctor’s office canceled his appointment. It’s rescheduled for next Wednesday.”
Flu shots—scheduling—that reminded him.
“Hey, any chance they could do that genetic testing at the same time?”
“That’s a completely different thing, Bennett,” said Olivia with as much exasperation as if he’d suggested they swing by a
horse stable to pick up some hamburgers. “I told you, we have to find a specialist, and then get a referral sent over from
his PCP, and—” She huffed. “It’s not that simple.”
Olivia and Bennett had agreed to run testing on all the kids because of Olivia’s sister, Emily, who died when Olivia was just
a kid. Leukemia. Olivia had been great about getting Norah, their oldest, tested right away. But they needed to test the other
two. Still, there was a time and a place, and New Year’s Eve was not it. Ugh . . . why had he reminded Olivia about the testing
when he wanted to start building some positive energy, some good vibes?
Alex placed one sticky hand on each of Bennett’s cheeks, commanding his full attention.
“Na-na,” he said. “Wanna-na-na.”
“Can he have a banana?” said Bennett.
“No,” said Olivia, slitting open the package of chicken breasts. “He already had one earlier.”
“Aw, he could have another, right?”
“No! It’ll stop him up.” Slap. Slap. The chicken breasts were on the cutting board, the container in the trash. “Don’t you remember we made that mistake with Rosie?”
Olivia set to washing her hands.
Bennett didn’t quite remember but made an assenting sound anyway as Alex explored Bennett’s ear with a fat little finger.
Anyway, constipation was a small problem compared to leukemia.
Alex’s finger poked deep into Bennett’s ear. Bennett yelped, twisting away from his curious two-year-old and jiggling him
until he laughed.
Olivia turned to watch them with a tiny smile on her face, rubbing her hands dry on a dish towel, and despite the tension
between them, Bennett allowed himself to be turned on.