event is still child-free. I am hesitant to leave the girls, but at the same time, I could use a breather. I welcome the opportunity for adult conversation, and this is the closest thing Greg and I have had to a date in several months.
I have spent most of the morning calling local shelters and adding to my social media campaign to find Rocky. I’ve checked Craigslist and posted in every place I can think of. Still nothing.
The girls seem in good spirits about it. Greg’s optimism that Rocky will return has rubbed off on them, and together they make up stories about where he might be and what he’s up to. Finding him and bringing him home has become an adventure. They draw signs, and Greg prints adult versions, offering reward money we really can’t afford.
Around one, Lucy, a college-aged girl who lives down the street, arrives to take over. She’s babysat for us plenty, and I’m grateful she knows the routine, because the second she steps over the threshold, Greg is taking my hand and pulling me out the door.
The Meyers’ home is best described as a visit to a museum. Like it belongs on the cover of Architectural Digest. In fact, I think it was featured. Maybe even twice, once when they bought the place, and again after they did their remodel. Dana changes her mind incessantly. She points the finger at Trevor. Meanwhile, he blames her. One thing is for sure, they’re perfectly suited for one another.
It’s probably for the best that the event is child-free. Trevor insists on a spotless home, which makes Dana overly nervous anytime she hosts guests. As the saying goes, a place for everything, and everything in its place.
Greg is not a huge fan of the Meyers, not that he’s ever said as much. My husband lives by the saying: Great people talk about ideas, average people talk about things, and small people talk about other people.
I like to point out that is precisely what he doesn’t like about them, even if he refuses to speak it outright. As we pulled up to the curb, I asked him if he regretted coming. He smiled and said, “Not yet.” Then he placed his hand on my thigh, gave it a squeeze, and told me not to overthink things.
This is what I love about him. Greg knows how to put me in my place.
Now I look on as he recants the story about losing our child at the fall festival to a group of guests, as though most of them haven’t already heard some version of it.
It’s endearing the way he tells it, and every parent can relate. He’s good at faking the self-deprecation thing, and while I surely hadn’t felt this way last night, my heart swells with a sense of pride. Greg had been completely collected. He was terrified, I could tell, but on the outside it never showed. I cannot say the same for myself.
“And your neighbor found her, right?”
My husband glances over at me. “Well, Amy practically put out their house fire yesterday with her bare hands, so I guess you could say it was fair play.”
“That guy is so weird,” Dana says. “You were lucky.”
Greg offers only a slight nod. He dissipates the conversation, directing the attention away from himself as effortlessly as he’d gained it. It’s strange watching him mingle with the Meyers and their friends, with other people from the real estate world. Plus, many of our neighbors.
My husband can hold his own. But he’ll always be more software developer than extrovert. He’s quiet and unassuming, which only adds to his mystery. The same mystery is often confused with arrogance, but he gets away with it on account of his looks—he’s a JFK Jr. doppelgänger. I know how enticing that boyish grin can be. It doesn’t hurt that he has the brains to match, or that he’s well-traveled and well-bred. How I got lucky enough to rope him in is anybody’s guess.
It’s not that I’m unattractive. I always sort of just imagined that a man like Greg would want something more. Someone also well-traveled and well-bred. Someone who didn’t bring him down a notch or two. Dana would say it’s harmful to think that way. But even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t stop others from thinking it. I see it in the way people look at us, trying to work out whether we’re together. Their stolen sideway glances easily reveal the truth.
“That husband of yours,” Dana