ON MOST NIGHTS after dinner, Mrs. Bennet and varying combinations of her daughters gathered in the den behind the first-floor staircase to watch television. On this particular night, the family matriarch was joined by Liz, Mary, and also Aunt Margo; Jane had gone to Chip’s apartment, and Kitty and Lydia were at a birthday party for one of the members of their gym. (The cake—Liz had not been able to resist asking—would be made with almond flour and coconut oil frosting.)

Just as some people enjoy knitting in front of the television, Mrs. Bennet was fond of perusing housewares catalogs; indeed, the sound of pages turning, that quick flap when no item caught her eye and the pauses when something did, the occasional businesslike lick of the index finger, was one of the essential sounds of Liz’s childhood. This habit was also, apparently, what allowed Mrs. Bennet to maintain a belief that she had not actually “watched” a wide variety of shows even though she had been in the room for the duration of entire episodes and, in some cases, entire seasons.

They were midway through a reality cooking show when Willie popped his head into the room. He said, “I was wondering, Liz, if you’d like to go for a walk.”

“Me?”

“It seems like a nice night.”

Liz was slouched on the floor, her back against an ottoman, and she glanced over her shoulder, first at her mother, then at Aunt Margo. How irritating, Liz thought, that rather than fulfilling her obligation to Willie, giving him a tour had instead made him see her as his special pal.

“Liz and Jane run in the morning,” Mrs. Bennet said. “You should go with them tomorrow, Willie.”

“Running with three people is kind of awkward,” Liz said, then immediately felt mean. “But we can go for a quick walk. Want to come, Mary?”

Unapologetically, Mary shook her head.

Liz feared that Willie wanted to bring up the conversation they’d had about the prostitute—perhaps he wished for further reassurance that she wouldn’t repeat it—but once they got outside, he seemed to have no particular agenda.

“I hope you’re not bored being here,” she said as they turned left on Grandin Road. “I’m afraid Cincinnati is better to live in than visit.”

“I can see that,” Willie said, and since he was simply agreeing with her, Liz tried not to again feel offended. “I need to do some work tomorrow, and I wonder if there’s a café you recommend. Your parents’ bandwidth is a joke.”

“There’s a place called Awakenings on Hyde Park Square.” The heat of the day had dissipated, and it was actually pleasant to be outside; around them, invisibly, cicadas buzzed. She said, “The summer I graduated from college, I was back here for a few months before I moved in with Jane in New York. Mary and I played Twenty Questions one time when we were waiting for takeout at a Chinese restaurant. This was before any of us had cellphones. Anyway, I was guessing, and it was a person who lived in Cincinnati. I got to the twentieth question and still didn’t know who it was. And I’m good at Twenty Questions.” Liz laughed a little at her own impulse to brag about something unimpressive, and Willie didn’t. “Mary told me it was me,” Liz continued. “I was the person she was thinking of, but I hadn’t guessed myself. And I was all outraged, like, ‘I don’t live in Cincinnati! I live in New York.’ She said, ‘You could have fooled me.’ ” Liz and Willie were passing a miniature château—even in its modified version, it was seven or eight thousand square feet—and Liz said, “I guess I’m a Cincinnati opportunist. In New York, I play the wholesome-midwesterner card, but when I’m back here, I consider myself to be a chic outsider.” Even before Willie replied, Liz felt the loneliness of having confided something true in a person who didn’t care. Still, when he spoke, it was more disappointing than she’d expected.

He said, “That chili we had—I liked it okay, but I keep burping up the taste of it.”

“That happens to everyone,” Liz said. “It’s called repeating on you.”