Page 5 of Natural Selection

Dinner is bean soup, chicken parts, potatoes, and cauliflower. Sophia thinks longingly about the uncut sheet of ravioli at Café Chelsea, the iconic burger at 4 Charles, the pad see ew at her local Thai takeout. The chicken and vegetables in front of her are boiled and colorless.

Hugh appears at their table. “Taken?” he asks, pointing to the seat next to Sophia’s.

“Join us, please,” Wanda says.

Sophia scoots her chair over a couple of inches.

“Will I be crowding you?” Hugh asks.

“Not at all,” Sophia says. This is starting to feel like a very weird Tinder date. She blows on a spoonful of soup.

“So, Hugh, tell us about yourself,” Wanda prompts.

“Haven’t I said? I teach biology.” He nods. “In Hanover, New Hampshire.”

Hugh has just pulled the Ivy League feint: I go to college in Cambridge; I attend school in New Haven. Sophia has heard plenty of people flex false modesty, although Sophia will give Hugh the benefit of the doubt and assume he might be too shy to say “Dartmouth” aloud.

“Are you married?” Wanda asks.

“My wife passed eighteen months ago.” Hugh considers his bowl of soup. “Breast cancer.”

Wanda reaches out for Hugh’s arm. “I am so sorry.” She glances at Henry, who is pulling the bones out of his chicken, then at Sophia.

“I’m sorry,” Sophia says. She puts her spoon down. At the cool kids’ table, there’s a burst of laughter. “Do you have children?”

Hugh clears his throat. “Yes,” he says in a brighter voice. “A boy and a girl, though they’re grown now.”

“You’re an empty nester, like us,” Wanda says.

“We have three children,” Henry says. “A son who’s a suit, a daughter who’s a suit, and our youngest, who’s enby.” He looks between Sophia and Hugh. “That means nonbinary.”

“Yes,” Sophia says, nodding. She does not add: I know what “enby” means, and Hugh, who teaches at Dartmouth, certainly does as well.

“They manage a vintage clothing store in Columbus,” Wanda says. “And live with us at home.”

At the next table, Miguel sits down to eat with Arn and Dolores. Arn has changed his shirt, and there’s already a bottle of gin on the table. Miguel has drawn the short straw, Sophia thinks.

“Tell us something about your wife,” Wanda says to Hugh. “So we can feel like we know her.”

Sophia cringes, then remembers Wanda’s bad habit. Inappropriately personal.

But Hugh seems unbothered. “She was a pianist, classically trained. She gave lessons out of our home, but she used to sit down and play at parties as well.” He tears a roll in half and opens a gold foil packet of butter. “She used to get everyone singing.”

Wanda beams. “What a gift!”

Sophia has to agree. She can picture Hugh’s wife, the extrovert to his introvert, sitting down at the piano during an otherwise staid gathering of academics and in a few moments having everyone gathered around singing “Penny Lane.”

“Now, Sophia, tell us something about your husband,” Wanda says. “What’s his superpower?”

Sophia blinks. What is JP’s superpower? She’s pretty sure Wanda and Hugh don’t want to hear any stories from between the sheets. JP is a fifty-something Oklahoma dad and a middle-level executive. How did Sophia get in so deep? She has tried to parse this with Pierce. She doesn’t have daddy issues: Paul Othonos is as warm and solid a man who exists; he’s extremely proud and supportive of Sophia’s life and career in the city. Pierce thinks Sophia is attracted to JP because, despite his earnest declarations of love, he’s the tiniest bit aloof. He disappears every weekend; he’s keeping his kids from her. There’s an important piece of him that’s essentially unknowable, and it drives Sophia crazy.

“JP is a wildlife photographer,” Sophia says. “He was assigned this trip by Condé Nast Traveler.” If she’s going to lie, she might as well make it a doozy. Considering that magazines have a very long lead time, Sophia can pretend the article is coming out in months or even a year, when all these people will be a distant memory. “Now, it’s up to me to get the pictures.”

Wanda claps her hands. “Aren’t you a marvel? Your husband is lucky to have you. Condé Nast Traveler! We read it from time to time, don’t we, Henry? We don’t pay for a subscription, but if I see it at the beauty parlor or the doctor’s office, I always pick it up. Oh, that is exciting news!”

Henry wipes his mouth with his napkin. “We love all our children,” he says.

The Wi-Fi password is Dorado123. Sophia heads down to her cabin after dinner and logs on. The Wi-Fi works—her email loads up with new Douglas Elliman listings, and there’s a text from Emme that says: I’m in your apartment, it’ll just be tonight, I’m going to find a martini and French fries (and maybe some cute guy to make out with, jk!) You’re a lifesaver.

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