Don’s dad owned racehorses and Malay’s mother had been an international supermodel in the eighties. When Malay saw Nigel, she spread her arms wide and he stepped into her hug without reluctance. Winnie watched in amusement as her husband became entangled in Malay’s scarves, his watch snagging a piece of the silk. Don stepped in to help.

“Just another man trying to snag my wife away from me!” Don winked conspiratorially at Winnie, who smiled weakly in return. He was dressed in a brown leather jacket and skintight black jeans. It might have worked if his body weren’t shaped like a rectangle. Once Don had them free, Nigel offered to take his jacket.

“It’s part of my outfit,” he said, placing an offended hand over the right pocket of said jacket. Winnie smothered a giggle and tried to catch Nigel’s eye. But he wasn’t looking at her, he was too distracted to care about their friends’ idiosyncrasies.

“Still driving that Subaru, I see.” Don smirked over his little round glasses.

“It won’t die.” Nigel shrugged. This was part of the routine, the talk of the neonish green station wagon, which all of Winnie’s friends detested. Nigel and Winnie had this argument frequently.

“I happen to like the alien shit color of my car. What I don’t like is defending it to these buffoons every time they come over,” Nigel always said.

Sam came barreling down the stairs in a flurry of awkward arms and legs, and Nigel veered for the kitchen. Despite his earlier good mood, he didn’t want to be here, and Winnie was starting to realize that she agreed with him. The doorbell rang. She knew it would be either the Parklands or the Fromlics, and when she swung open the door, she was right on both accounts. The four of them, having arrived at the same time, stepped inside, complaining about the weather and lack of parking in tandem: Desiree and Uri, Vicky and Mack—Winnie had been roommates with Desiree as well as Vicky in college, and their husbands were mostly boring additions Winnie chose not to know well.

She’d confessed that to Nigel once, and he’d patted her on the knee and said, “I’m not sure their wives want to know them, either.”

Winnie chose that moment to laugh at Nigel’s years-old joke and suddenly felt like she missed her husband, even though he was just in the kitchen.

“Where’s Nigel?” Desiree shrugged out of her jacket. “Did he make the risotto?”

“Yeah!” Winnie wiggled her eyebrows up and down, congratulating herself on being the fakest person on the planet.

“Lemme go grab him,” she said through lips that felt stiff. She accepted the bottle of wine Uri proffered just as Dakota walked in the front door. He looked surprised that everyone was there, and Winnie realized that she’d failed to tell him about Friendsgiving.

He accepted a couple of high fives from her friends and the childish slapping of palms made her flinch as she gripped the chilled bottle, pretending to study the label.

“This is great,” she lied. Dakota was in a good mood, playing things off like he knew about the party all along. A gust of relief rushed from her lips as she arranged them into a smile. She had the sudden urge to run to the kitchen and lock the door. Nigel, she wanted to be with Nigel, so why were all these people in her house?

“Be right back.” She beelined for the kitchen, peeking her head in the door.

“Can you bring the rest of the wine, please? Everyone’s here.” Her voice was light, her tone joyful, but if her husband looked at her, he would see she was wearing her face. Surely he would come rescue her. He didn’t look. Winnie lingered half bent in the doorway, waiting for him to acknowledge her. “Nigel...” she whispered sharply. Then he did look up—his phone was in his hand like he’d been texting.

“Coming,” he said.

“The wine,” she reminded him. He nodded toward the bottles on the counter, the last case they had from Marrowstone Vineyards. Hopefully it would be enough—Winnie planned on drinking tonight. To hell with her rule about alcohol, she decided.

Just then, Subomi’s mom texted to say she was outside to pick Samuel up. Winnie spotted her son talking to Malay and made her way over.

“Samuel, grab your things. Subomi’s mom is here.”

“Aww no, leaving us?” Malay teased. It was a rule not to have any of the kids at Friendsgiving, the reason being everyone wanted to get drunk. After a quick goodbye to Malay, Samuel dashed away to get his duffel. Winnie had just turned back to say something to her friend when she heard Dakota curse loudly from behind her.

“Fuck, kid! Be careful.”

She turned to see her brother looming over her son, beer dripping down his arm and onto the floor. Sam looked genuinely frightened, all previous excitement drained from his face.

“Dakota...” Winnie was temporarily stunned.

“Don’t fucking talk to my son like that.”

Nigel stood just outside the kitchen, a bottle of wine in each hand. He looked...over it. He was calm, but Winnie could tell he was livid. She had a brief vision of her husband leaping over the couch and smashing the bottles on Dakota’s head. She’d never seen her husband look that angry. She was oddly turned on.

“’Kota,” Winnie said urgently, trying to draw his attention. Red-faced and already drunk, her brother turned toward Nigel.

“He ran into me, man. Didn’t your momma ever tell you not to run in the house?” Dakota directed this question at Samuel. Winnie didn’t have time to process what happened next: she saw Nigel set the wine bottles down on the hutch, and then he had Dakota by the shirt, shoving him against the wall. Nigel was going to take care of things, just like he had that night. “It’s done. No one will ever know,” he’d said.

Her husband had the body of a gymnast—tight and hard—and he used surprise to pin Dakota for a good five seconds before the bigger man shoved Nigel backward with a great whoosh of his arms.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Uri called out, moving forward to step between them. “You’re a guest in this house,” Uri said. He bent his head solemnly to look Dakota in the eyes. Her brother jerked back, his face obstinate.

Winnie knew what was coming, and her insides shriveled up like little raisins. Dakota was looking at her—he wanted confirmation that he was more than a guest, he was her precious twin brother. But it didn’t work like that anymore.

“You should leave,” Winnie told him. His eyes held on to hers for a painful second before he looked away. Winnie knew ’Kota; he’d see this as a betrayal: blood was thicker than water. But Winnie had other blood to consider.

“Samuel, come here,” she said. Samuel didn’t hesitate. He didn’t seem thirteen at this moment; he was a little boy again, and he was hers to protect. “Go, Subomi’s mom is waiting. Everything will be fine.” She kissed his forehead, and for once he didn’t look embarrassed.