The Book That Matters Most by Ann Hood

until after New Year’s, finally getting to hike up to Machu Picchu.”
    There was a pause long enough to make Ava wonder if he’d hung up.
    Then his achingly familiar voice again.
    â€œMerry Christmas, kiddo.”
    And a click.
    Peru?
    She thought of the casual we he’d used. And had he actually called her kiddo ?
    Forgetting it was Christmas, Ava called Cate.
    â€œYou are not going to believe this,” Ava began without even giving her friend any holiday wishes. “Jim actually called me. From Peru. He said we’re in Peru. He called me kiddo .”
    â€œEw,” Cate said.
    â€œHe said he’s finally getting to hike up to Machu Picchu. Finally? He never once mentioned wanting to hike up to Machu Picchu. I mean, did you ever hear him say anything like that? Ever?”
    â€œI’m sorry, sweetie,” Cate said.
    Ava heard the sounds of people laughing, distant strains of music.
    â€œYou’re having a party,” she said.
    â€œNo!” Cate said. “Not a party. It’s just . . . well, it’s Christmas. And Gray made his eggnog.”
    Gray’s eggnog. Last year—every year—Ava and Jim had gone over and drunk Gray’s eggnog. Too much bourbon. Gray in a ridiculousChristmas sweater with a reindeer whose nose lit up red. The disgusting dip Cate made in her crockpot with cream cheese, Rotel tomatoes, and breakfast sausage.
    â€œYou got the invite, didn’t you?”
    Ava’s eyes drifted to the pile of unopened mail sitting on the bottom step.
    â€œWe’d love to have you. Really,” Cate was saying.
    â€œI have a date,” Ava said. “With Jane Austen.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    Ava squeezed her eyes shut. She could picture Gray in that stupid sweater, his shaggy hair, his eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses. And Cate urging that dip—mommy crack, she called it—on everyone. And couples, wives with their husbands, arms crooked together, ironic eye rolls, jokes, snipes, private signals, all of the intimacies of marriage.
    â€œI’m sure,” Ava said.
    T he afternoon of New Year’s Eve, Cate convinced Ava to walk downtown for Bright Night, the city’s way of ringing in the New Year with live performances and fireworks. Without hesitating, Ava agreed. She and Jim had hated New Year’s Eve, with its forced gaiety and resolutions and silly hats. They’d always stayed home together and cooked something complicated: cassoulet or duck à l’orange or beef Wellington. Sometimes Cate and Gray joined them for dinner. Last year Will and Maggie had both still been home, and Cate and Gray’s kids came too, the eight of them moving through the kitchen, chopping and tasting and stirring. After they ate, they’d played charades, a game choice that struck Ava now as both ironic and fitting. Jim had been fucking Delia Lindstrom for over a month by then.
    Happy to get out, she put on enough layers to make the buttons on her coat strain. Before she left, unable to keep from worrying about Maggie, she checked her email. Just Maggie’s usual cryptic messages. The Uffizi is always so crowded!!! Followed by a row of angry red faces. And: Someone told me in Naples they throw all their old furniture out the window on New Year’s Eve. Should I go to Naples? #wearahelmet . Ava sighed and went to Maggie’s Instagram page. Maybe she had gone to Naples. But no. There was only shot after shot of the Duomo from every possible angle. A photograph of a group of girls standing in front of it, arms draped around one another’s shoulders and mugging for the camera, was taken too far away for her to make out Maggie from the others, especially with their winter hats and oversized sunglasses. Will’s Facebook page proved just as disappointing. A trek to see the mountain gorillas had produced closeups of the gorillas and none of Will.
    Ava tucked her phone in her pocket, pulled on her gloves, and