Half ending, half beginning. They’re more fun with kids, though. When Peyton was twelve, we went to a wedding with the McCoys. We finished off the cake that didn’t go that well with my Amstel Light while we avoided the Electric Slide. Then, a song I’d never heard before blasted on. Tristan’s face lit up and Peyton beamed. They ran out to the dance floor and started shimmying. Not in a group. With each other. Peyton was dancing with a boy. She was only twelve. Jen leaned over. “Richard, if you hold that napkin any tighter, you’ll kill it.” * * * Tristan is too good for a lot of things: the concessions at movie theaters, Lipton tea and, most recently, a dorm room. Last year, his parents somehow skirted around Georgetown’s requirement that freshmen live in the dorms and bought him a condo, complete with a spacious balcony, near campus, reasoning that the investment would pay off more than room and board fees.
