Scott almost picked a wineglass but instead chose a red, plastic cup. He filled it with Marietta cabernet, 2008.

“Don’t you think that’s a little nice for a plastic cup?” Josie asked.

“Was 2008 a good year?” Scott asked, sipping.

“I’m presuming,” she said, sipping a white wine from a wide-rimmed glass. “All the others are 2010.”

Scott didn’t know much about wines, and besides, the plastic cup was a better match for a flannel button-up and old jeans. He was wearing boots, for God’s sake, so why would he care about drinking wine from plastic.

Josie, on the other hand. Sure, she was wearing jeans, too, but they appeared to be designer jeans. Her brown top was heavy with sequence. Her blonde hair was smooth and shiny, meticulous. She should be drinking from a glass, and honestly, should not be drinking something from 2010.

Jim was wired, pacing from room to room, placing dishes, juking and shuffling between and around people as they conversed and popped appetizers into their mouths. He was looking for bowls, had explored the cabinets for bowls, Scott noticed, and was scanning faces, looking for his wife, Deb.

“Have you guys seen Deb?” he asked Scott and Josie.

“Upstairs, maybe?” Josie said.

“Maybe.” Jim started to move away, toward the stairs, then stopped and turned back toward Scott and Josie.

“I think she’s 10 minutes away,” Jim said. “Just got a text from her.” More »