“You did indeed,” he said, nodding and holding his arms out in a pose. He was in a good mood.
“Gray pants, a mustache, and a green sweater with a pink button-down is hardly a costume, Whitacre.”
“Au contraire,” he said, looking at Merritt for the first time. His eyes shone like gray-blue river stones, and then he pulled a falsely disappointed face. “Though I’m guessing Merritt doesn’t get it, either.”
“I was going to say you look like Ned Flanders, but—”
He beamed.
“That’s because IamNed Flanders. See?” he said, turning to Adrienne and Willa, arms still raised.
“I didn’t peg you for aSimpsonsfan,” Merritt said.
“Well, when one is confronted with draconian party rules—”
Willa let out a huff. Whit grinned.
“—it’s an easy costume. But I did have a phase. And apparently, you did, too?”
She shrugged. “I contain multitudes.”
He nodded, his eyes holding her in them.
“Yes, you do.”
She cracked.
“But you’re right. I’ve seen probably one, maybe two episodes.”
Whit pretended to be shocked. “That’s a pretty big gap in your pop culture knowledge.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve filled it with hours and hours of only the highest-quality reality television.”
His grin shifted into something more subtle, more private—a joke for just the two of them.
“Where’s Annie?” Willa asked, like a voice from another world.
“Oh, she ran upstairs as soon as she got here. I guess she thought that’s where the kids were.”
Why was Whit still looking at her?
“She was right.”
“Mulled wine?” Adrienne offered.
“Please.”
He broke his stare to take the glass mug. The four of them stood in a loose circle. Willa raised her drink again to toast.
“To...”
Willa trailed off, in thought.
“New friends,” Adrienne said, with a firm nod in Merritt’s direction, “and old ones.”
Merritt couldn’t help glancing at Whit, who was looking at her again, and who pursed his lips at her in what Merritt considered to be the world’s first non-annoying example of the action.
The four of them clinked glasses, and then the air shifted in the way it does when a door opens.
