Neighborly(55)

“Well, have fun!” She seems eager to shut the door, to get back to whatever or whomever.

“Could I just ask a quick favor?” I read somewhere about the Ben Franklin effect: that someone who’s done you a favor will actually like you more as a result. Time to try it out. I need to build up some goodwill for when I opt out. “I was wondering if Meadow has an extra sun hat we could borrow?” Creepily, Meadow’s head isn’t much bigger than Sadie’s.

Raquel shakes her head. Does the Ben Franklin effect work if you ask for a favor but the person doesn’t do it for you?

“But have fun,” she says with another smile. “Bart and I can’t wait for your barbecue next weekend. Maybe by then, you and Doug will have an answer for all of us?”

I’m so stupid. It hadn’t even occurred to me that they all RSVPed yes so quickly because they’re expecting a big announcement. Barbecue = fresh meat. They might think we were telegraphing our intentions.

But someone in this neighborhood is targeting me. It could even be Raquel, because it could be any one of them. Really, everyone coming to my barbecue is a suspect. There’s no way I can let them have access to my inner world—my marriage, my husband, my body. His body. That’s the one they really want, isn’t it?

“I’ll have an answer for you,” I say.

“Great. Have fun on your trip!” Before I can get out a response, she’s shutting the door on me, obviously so eager to get back to what—or whom—she was doing that I’m not sure why she even answered it to begin with.

I’m about to cross back over to our side of the street when I see Yolanda and Wyatt exiting their house with the twins. I think of approaching them—maybe I’ll still get to test out the Ben Franklin effect after all—but Yolanda sees me and her face, which had been neutral, is transformed. Her expression becomes one of pure hate. It stops me in my tracks.

Wyatt sees where she’s looking, and his face changes, too. He looks afraid. He raises his hand in the most perfunctory wave and then hurries after her. She’s immersing herself fully in the twins, and I know that trick. Kids are the most acceptable diversion, the best way to be instantly and entirely busy.

I have no idea what I could have done to make Yolanda so angry. It’s been radio silence from her since girls’ night out when all the other women were texting me.

Then why did she RSVP for the barbecue? Just one curt word, but still. She said yes.

Doug already has Sadie set up in her car seat, sucking away at her pacifier. As he and I get in, he fixes me with a stare and says, “What do you think that was about?”

I buckle my seat belt and try to keep my voice level. “They must have been in a rush.”

Once we’re on the road, Sadie falls asleep quickly. I feel like this is our chance to talk, without having to look each other in the eyes.

“Are you mad at me about getting drunk at girls’ night?” I blurt artlessly.

“No.” Flat, inflectionless, devoid of information.

“Are you mad at me for something else?”

“What else could there be?” It’s amazing how that same flat tone can suddenly feel so challenging.

I glance back at Sadie, not wanting to corrupt her virgin ears even though I know all she’ll be aware of at this age is tone, not words.

“Did someone already tell you about openness?” I say softly. I can’t put it off any longer, not with the barbecue looming. We’ll need to opt out before then, and if people still show up, I’ll know they really meant it about being friends.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

So I tell him, making it sound as patently absurd as possible.

By the end, Doug’s mouth is hanging open, a great big cartoon O. “Everyone on the block,” he finally gets out, “they’re all sleeping with each other?”

“Not everyone. Some people opt out. Andie and Nolan opted out, for example.”

“Do you know everyone who’s in and everyone who’s out?”

I want to believe his interest is more academic than prurient. I want to believe that he’s going to dismiss the possibility out of hand. Because he loves me. Because he can’t stomach the idea of another man ever touching me or another woman touching him. Because we belong only to each other. We’re not monogamous because we saw no alternatives. We’re monogamous because it suits our love for one another.

“Wyatt and Yolanda?” he asks. “They’re part of it?” I nod.

“He probably hasn’t mentioned it because it seems like the women talk to each other first. They’re touting it like it’s some sort of feminist movement.” I hope he’ll roll his eyes with me, though truthfully, it may very well be feminism. This is grrrrrrl power. I’m just not that kind of grrrrrrl.

“Wyatt and Yolanda,” he repeats, like something’s becoming clear.

Is Doug harping on it because he thought he and Wyatt were better friends than that or because he’s just happened to notice that Yolanda is beautiful? Sure, she’s an aging beauty, a bit zaftig maybe, but she’s a certified beauty. She used to be in pageants, as she found it important to note.

Or maybe Tennyson is more his type. She actually looks like the girlfriend he had just before me, the one who intimidated me even in pictures, making me wonder how he could be slumming with me.