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  Intermittently, her mother would summon her to unhappily speculate about Ham, sometimes from a new angle and sometimes from angles previously explored just a short time earlier. Otherwise, Liz busied herself with tidying the Tudor, as well as with aggressive sniffing in cabinets and the corners of rooms for lingering traces of sulfuryl fluoride, Ken Weinrich’s reassurances notwithstanding.

  While she wished that her impatience as she waited to hear from Darcy would cancel out her impatience as she waited to hear from Lydia, the opposite proved true; doubly restless, Liz kept experiencing phantom buzzes in her pocket, incoming texts that turned out not to exist. She began composing in her head the pseudo-off-the-cuff missive she’d send when Darcy returned to Cincinnati: Hey there, wondering if you’re free to get coffee/dinner/whatever before I go back to New York? Having already changed her plane reservations twice since leaving Cincinnati for Houston, she no longer had a ticket to New York, but she figured the implication of urgency couldn’t hurt.

  In the early afternoon, Liz was driving home from the Smoothie King in Hyde Park Plaza when her phone buzzed with a real and actual text; it was not, however, from Darcy or Lydia. It was from Georgie.

  Liz, the text read, it was SO great to meet you. I’m sure you’ve heard from my brother about him and Caroline and now I feel very awkward about the conversation you and I had. I really wish I’d bitten my tongue. I can’t wait to read your article about Kathy de Bourgh and I hope we cross paths again soon!

  Liz’s heartbeat sped up unpleasantly, and continued to do so as she read the text a second time, searching for the part where Georgie specified what Liz might have heard about Darcy and Caroline. Really, though, was specification necessary? Still, it was shocking that exactly what Liz had feared might happen had happened. Hadn’t she been devoting enough anxious attention to this eventuality to preclude it? Had discussing the subject with Charlotte not been a sufficient method of warding it off?

  There was nothing to do but change clothes and go for another run. Although thirty-two ounces of pureed raspberry and mango were sloshing in her stomach, she couldn’t just sit inside the Tudor, knowing that Darcy and Caroline were together. (How could they be together? Was it possible that Liz had imagined all the fraught energy between herself and Darcy in Atherton, his solicitousness, that moment when they’d almost kissed? Had he invited her to breakfast to tell her that he and Caroline were a couple? To officially retract his affection and establish a more friendly and informal mode, should he and Liz encounter each other in the future?)

  Her hands shook as she tied her sneakers. In the second-floor hall, she called, “Mom, I’m going for a run” and left without either waiting for a response or taking a key. Once outside again, she didn’t bother stretching in the driveway but simply sprinted off.

  For half a mile, adrenaline and bewilderment spurred her on, and her pace was far faster than usual. But sorrow and smoothie gas soon triumphed; she decreased her speed, and tears welled in her eyes. She had been prepared to admit her mistakes to Darcy, to make amends and humble herself. Now Caroline had robbed her of the opportunity, and even worse, Darcy had let Caroline do so.

  As Liz reached Madison Road, tears fell down her cheeks, and an undeniable cramp took hold on the right side of her abdomen. And then she was sobbing, she was full-on heaving, in the middle of the day, on a busy street, and instead of making a right, she crossed Torrence Parkway, took a seat on a public bench, and gave in to a combination of regret and sadness that caused her to gasp and shake. She hunched over, her elbows pressed against her thighs, her hands covering her face, and tears and mucus cascaded down as she wept and wept and wept. After an indeterminate amount of time, a tentative voice said, “Honey?” Liz looked up.

  It was a slim, middle-aged black woman who also appeared to be exercising; she wore sturdy white walking shoes, shorts, and a T-shirt featuring the University of Cincinnati Bearcat. “Are you okay, honey?”

  Liz ran her palm upward over her nostrils. “I’m heartbroken,” she said, because it seemed the most succinct way of conveying the facts.

  “Oh, honey.” The woman shook her head. “Aren’t we all?”

  I KNOW U have your phone, Liz typed in a text to Lydia. I’m not telling u not to marry ham but why don’t u reach out to m & d and tell them you’re fine?

  No reply was immediately forthcoming. Although she suspected it would achieve little, Liz also looked up the number for Ham’s gym and left a message.

  She was lying in bed in the dark when, she was almost certain, Darcy’s plane took off from San Francisco; there was only one direct red-eye from SFO to Cincinnati. She no longer was waiting to hear from him, but the desolation inflicted by Georgie’s text had scarcely decreased. This new development had to be more than just a few stolen, wine-facilitated kisses between Darcy and Caroline, didn’t it? Or else Georgie wouldn’t have referred to them in such an official way. They, too, wouldn’t have eloped, would they? The thought was truly sickening.

  During the many years of romantic torment meted out by Jasper Wick, Liz had routinely cried herself to sleep. But that had been a while ago, and the nocturnal weeping Liz was gripped by in her childhood bed in the Tudor didn’t have a recent precedent; it was almost—almost—unfamiliar.

  SEVENTY-TWO HOURS PASSED before Liz received acknowledgment of the text she’d sent Lydia, and when it came, Lydia’s response contained no words. It was a photo of herself and Ham standing in front of a white wall, a round blue Cook County seal partially visible behind them. Ham was dapper in a button-down shirt and sport coat, a red rose on his lapel, and Lydia was unforgivably young and stunning in a sleeveless white dress; behind her right ear was tucked a red rose that matched Ham’s. Together, the two held out a light blue piece of paper covered with writing too small for Liz to decipher, except that at the top, in capital letters, it said CERTIFICATION OF MARRIAGE. They both were beaming.

  Congratulations! Liz texted back. U guys look great! And then: When u coming home???

  Again, there was no answer.

  MR. BENNET AND Kitty returned to Cincinnati on Thursday evening, four days after they’d departed and just a few hours after Liz had received the photograph from Lydia; her father and sister had never encountered the newlyweds.

  Mrs. Bennet was, as usual, in her bed—the demands of the Women’s League luncheon, pressing as they were, had been set aside all week in order for her to devote herself full-time to her shame and distress—and Mr. Bennet and Kitty entered the room to deliver a report devoid of news to her, Liz, and Mary.

  “Did you really find out nothing in all that time?” Mrs. Bennet asked her husband.

  “I learned that it costs forty-seven dollars a day to park a car at the Hilton.” Mr. Bennet seemed extremely weary. “Anything else, Kitty?”

  “The Bean is cool.”

  “I always knew there was something off about Ham,” Mrs. Bennet said. “He had a funny look in his eyes, and I didn’t trust him.”

  “They’re probably on their honeymoon by now,” Mary said with malicious delight.

  “Kitty, what do you think?” Liz said. Surely, if Liz had been in touch with Lydia, Kitty had, too. But Kitty merely shrugged.

  “We should hire a detective,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Fred, remember when the Hoessles were getting divorced and Marilyn hired someone to follow Buddy?”

  “Actually,” Liz said, “I’ve heard from Lydia.”

  “You didn’t think to tell us?” Mr. Bennet said.

  “It wasn’t very long ago, and she didn’t say anything. It’s a picture.” Liz tapped on the message icon on her phone’s screen, then on the photo itself: Ham and Lydia in their dressy clothes, holding their marriage certificate, looking jubilant. She showed it to her father first, and his expression seemed to be one of muted amusement.

  Kitty said, “Wow, she looks fierce,” and Mary said, “Then I guess it’s a done deal.”

  When finally Liz brought the phone to her mother, Mrs. Bennet peered at i
t with pursed lips and burst once more into tears. “If that’s how Lydia wants it, then fine,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Fine. But I’ll have nothing more to do with either of them.”

  LIZ FOUND HER father in his study. She said, “You know when we were talking about if Mary’s gay and you said people can do what they want as long as they don’t practice it in the street and frighten the horses?”

  Mr. Bennet sighed. “It appears your youngest sister is doing everything in her power to call my bluff.”

  “I realize that being transgender seems weird to you,” Liz said. “But the world has changed a lot.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I don’t want us to be one of those families that has a huge rift and doesn’t speak to each other. Do you?”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Help Mom get past this. When Lydia and Ham are back in Cincinnati, invite them over for dinner like normal. Or, I don’t know, give them a waffle iron. They didn’t get married to spite you guys. They’re in love.”

  Mr. Bennet smiled wryly. “I suppose they are,” he said. “But that’s a condition that’s acute, not chronic.”

  “WHEN DID YOU know?” Liz asked Kitty. They were in Kitty’s car on their way to pick up dinner from Bangkok Bistro. “Did you know as soon as you guys started doing CrossFit?”

  “Basically.”

  “So it’s not like Lydia was flirting with the gym owner, then found out he was transgender. She knew all along?”

  “It’s the kind of thing people talk about. It’s also, like, Ham is insanely strong. He can do fifty pull-ups in a minute, which is amazing, and when you consider that he was born a girl—” Clearly, Liz thought, Kitty didn’t share her concern about using politically incorrect language. Kitty added, “If anything, Ham being trans made Lydia more intrigued.”

  “I wonder if she’ll become an activist for LGBT causes now,” Liz said, and Kitty laughed.

  “That isn’t how she sees herself at all, or how she sees him. She definitely thinks of him as a guy, and she’s into the whole chivalry thing. Well, it does sound like his firsthand knowledge of women’s bodies is a bonus with sex.”

  “Ugh.” Liz put up a hand, her palm to Kitty, and Kitty laughed again.

  “You’re such a prude.”

  “I’m not a prude,” Liz said. “Good for them. But I don’t need to hear about it.”

  “Then why are you asking me all these questions?”

  LYDIA’S TEXT ARRIVED in midmorning the next day, sent as a group message to Jane, Liz, Mary, and Kitty: Were coming back tonite having a party can u guys get some alcohol

  Another text followed: At our place around 9

  And then a third: No champagne too sugary but tequila/hard cider not the cheap kinds

  An explosion of sororal texts ensued.

  From Kitty: Congrats!!!!!­!!!!!­!!!!!­!!!!!­

  From Jane: I wish I could be there, congratulations!

  From Mary: Are you enjoying being a lesbian?

  From Liz: I think it’s important for you to reach out to M & D

  From Kitty: Their acting bonkers

  From Liz: Also tell Ham I look forward to having him as a brother in law

  From Mary: “Brother” in law

  From Lydia: Mary trust me ham is more masculine than 99% of dudes out there

  From Lydia: M & D can think whatever they want

  From Lydia: We use a 9 inch dildo Mary u should try it some time maybe u wouldn’t be so fucking grumpy

  From Lydia: Isn’t it funny I’m the youngest but the 1st to get married???

  THE REMARKS THAT had previously echoed in Liz’s head—I’m in love with you, I can’t stop thinking about you—had been replaced. As she stood in the shower rinsing shampoo from her hair, as she ate a turkey sandwich, as she drove to Hyde Park Wine & Spirits and compliantly purchased noncheap tequila and hard cider, and then to Joseph-Beth Booksellers, where she acquired a paperback titled Transgender 101: A Simple Guide to a Complex Issue, the line that echoed instead was I’m sure you’ve heard from my brother about him and Caroline. Driving along Edwards Road, she thought, I’m sure you’ve heard from my brother about him and Caroline. I’m sure you’ve heard from my brother about him and Caroline. I’m sure you’ve heard from my brother about him and Caroline.

  Back in her room, Liz looked online and found the location and meeting times of a support group for family members of transgender individuals. She then found the names of three family therapists, copied down the information by hand, folded the piece of paper, inserted it into an envelope on which she wrote Mom & Dad, and attached the envelope to Transgender 101 with a rubber band. Finally, when she could think of no other gestures to convince herself she was a dutiful daughter and sister, Liz booked a ticket on a flight to New York for the following morning.

  LYDIA WORE A short yellow sundress and flats, and she did seem filled with a newlywed bliss Liz had never really believed existed. By way of greeting, the bride held out her left hand to Kitty and Liz (Mary had decided not to attend the party), and an enormous emerald-cut diamond ring atop a diamond-encrusted wedding band caught the light. “We got them at Tiffany’s on the Magnificent Mile,” Lydia said. “They cost twenty thousand dollars altogether.”

  “They’re pretty,” Liz said.

  “Did Ham pay in cash?” Kitty asked.

  Ham approached then, and though Liz detected in him an underlying wariness as they both leaned in to hug, he, too, seemed genuinely happy. “Congratulations,” Liz said. “Welcome to the family.”

  “I realize this didn’t play out in the ideal way,” Ham said. “But I hope you know, Liz and Kitty, that I intend to honor and care for your sister.”

  His earnestness was both touching and embarrassing; also, Liz was aware of scrutinizing his goatee in a way she hadn’t in the past. She murmured, “Of course.”

  “I plan to keep trying with your parents,” he said. “I think it’s best to let them have some space for now, but I’m not giving up.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Liz said, and then a tall, red-haired woman she’d never met embraced Ham and, in doing so, interrupted the conversation.

  About three dozen other guests—visibly athletic men and women in their twenties, thirties, and forties, plus a smattering of preppy young women who were childhood friends of Lydia’s—milled about. Ham’s house was a narrow and immaculate five-story dwelling in Mount Adams with a granite-filled kitchen and a roof deck. Setting her tequila and cider on the dining room table, where a bar had been assembled—there were, in fact, some bottles of champagne, one of which Liz poured from for herself—Liz was accosted by Jenny Teetelbaum, Lydia’s best friend from Seven Hills. At a normal volume, Jenny said, “Isn’t it crazy about Ham? I would never have guessed.” In the hope of setting an example, Liz lowered her own voice. “I’m excited for them,” she said.

  “I hear your parents are freaking out,” Jenny said. “Which is so understandable.”

  “Are you still teaching kindergarten?” Liz asked.

  After hearing in detail about the whimsies of five-year-olds, Liz found herself in the living room, at the edge of a conversation about whether clean and jerks or burpee pull-ups were the single best CrossFit exercise, when Ham tapped a fork against his glass. He stood in front of the fireplace, Lydia beside him. “Thank you all for joining us tonight,” he said, and this remark alone prompted clapping and hoots. “I just want to say, on behalf of Lydia and me, we’re thrilled to have you celebrating with us, and we appreciate your support as we enter the next stage of our lives together. And I want to say to Lydia, baby, thank you for making me the happiest guy alive!” They turned their faces to kiss, and the cheering that ensued was positively uproarious. When the embrace ended, Lydia raised both her arms above her head like an Olympic skier who’d completed a victorious run. “Turn on the music!” she cried out, and Liz couldn’t tell if the first dance that followed, to Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing,” was planned or
impromptu. That Lydia and Ham were in love seemed beyond doubt.

  A few minutes later, while Lydia was dancing with Jenny Teetelbaum, Liz tapped her sister on the shoulder. “I’m headed out,” she said. “Congratulations again.”

  Lydia’s expression was scornful. “It’s not even eleven!”

  “I’m going back to New York in the morning. Lydia, I really hope you’ll get in touch with Mom and Dad.”

  “Don’t nag me at our party.”

  “They might be old and weird and narrow-minded, but they’re the only parents you have.”

  “Oh my God, can you even stop for one second?” Lydia reached for Liz’s hand, grasped it, and began twirling under their linked arms. “Have you completely forgotten how to enjoy yourself?” Lydia asked, and Liz thought, Maybe.

  She stepped in and hugged her loathsome, charming younger sister. “Keep me posted,” she said.

  OUTSIDE, LIZ WALKED briskly to her father’s car and was just a few feet from it when she heard her name. She turned to see Ham jogging after her.

  “You slipped out without giving me a chance to say thanks again for coming tonight. Really.”