“No, no,” Steph assured me. “I just—it’s that she’s on her own, and she’s—well, she’s getting older.”

I crossed my legs, and my right foot bobbed out of the shade into the sunlight. I was wearing flip-flops, and my purple toenail polish was chipped. I became aware that I was wearing stringy cutoffs and a faded blue tank top with tiny holes near the hem. And of course, even though I’d washed my hair, I’d pulled it back in a ponytail when it was still wet. I didn’t look that great, and here was Steph looking at me and expecting me to be a responsible adult.

“I know,” I said. I sat up, uncrossing my legs and tucking my feet beneath the bench so the chipped nail polish wasn’t visible anymore. “I know she’s getting older, but Joan’s very independent.” I saw Steph note my use of her first name. “I call her Joan. She’s not really a ‘grandma’ type. So it’s good she can ask you to come over and help her. I’m pretty impressed that she’ll do even that.”

“Did she tell you about her memory lapses?” Steph asked.

“No. But I’m her granddaughter. I don’t think she would tell me.”

“Well, now you know,” Steph said gently.

“Yeah,” I said. This was awkward. “Maybe I can talk to my dad about it.”

“Okay. I hope it’s all right that I brought this up—”

“Yo, Steph, what’s taking so long?”

A woman was walking toward us from the parking lot. She was stocky, wearing a striped rugby shirt, knee-length baggy shorts, and sneakers. Her black hair was in a ponytail pulled through the back of a baseball cap.

Steph glanced up. “Lisa’s running late.”

The woman stopped a few feet away from us and flashed me a grin. “Hey,” she said. “How do you know Steph?”

“This is Aria West,” Steph said before I could answer. “She’s Joan West’s granddaughter.”

“Oh, the artist lady,” the woman said, nodding.

I was about to ask how she knew about my grandmother when Steph said, “Aria, this is Mel Lopez.”

“Hi,” I said.

“I hope Steph’s not boring you with all her xeriscaping theories,” Mel said. “She’s a little obsessed.”

I glanced at Steph, who cracked a tiny grin.

“No, she’s not boring me,” I said.

The Safeway doors whooshed open and Lisa emerged, looking a bit frazzled. She had taken off her Safeway vest and was pulling a pack of cigarettes out of her back pocket. As she lit up, Steph went over to her and rubbed a hand over her back. “You okay?” she asked.

Lisa frowned and nodded. “Just busy.”

The way they stood together—Steph leaning in, Lisa letting her get that close—made me realize they were a couple. It jolted me a little, a tiny jab of disappointment.