Terry is ready to issue her verdict. “Well, Henri,” she says after literally smacking my hand away when I try to help clear the plates. “I’ve made up the couch in the study for you. Dating or not, I’m not having Chantale call me to ask why she sent her daughter up here for two days and ended up a grandmother.”

“Auntie, for the love of God, you have got to stop,” Corinne says.

“I don’t have to do a damn thing except stay Black, pay my taxes, and die, honey.” She cackles all the way to the kitchen with that one, arms full of empty plates.

Later, when Terry has gone off to shower, after doing all the dishes, Corinne and I set out to straighten up the kitchen and living room area—if for nothing else than to make up for the fact that this woman worked all day, cooked all afternoon, picked us up from the station in Montreal’s definition of downtown traffic, and even insisted on doing the dishes, all in the middle of the workweek.

After changing out of our travel clothes, Corinne and I put away the dishes as best we can figure out. It’s a nice feeling, caring for this comfortable, colorful home with Corinne Troy.

I want to say something, maybe “Thank you for bringing me here” or “Thank you for being here” or even “Thank you for being you. I’m really glad we’re doing this together, and I like you a stupid amount.” Instead, I just say:

“What if McGill turns me down too?”

“It won’t,” she says, taking wide sweeps of the kitchen floor. “It’s going to go great, Halti. Just be yourself.”

“People love saying that.” I sigh. “That’s like screaming at someone having a panic attack not to panic. What if I don’t know what that means?”

She pulls herself from the wall and steps into the study, flopping herself on the makeshift bed, bouncing a few times, completely comfortable. Not just in this home, I realize, but also in her skin. Being Corinne Troy is not a performance to Corinne Troy.

“Okay, okay: no platitudes. I hate getting those myself,” she says. “Real advice, though? Stop trying to imagine what the other person wants to hear; that’s actively dumb. Plus, they’re likely to be Canadians. Their brains are harder to read what with all the politeness protocols happening up here.”

That’s what I had done with Donielle Kempf, wasn’t it? Maybe this time it might serve me to be a little more like Corinne Troy: speak first, think later, and live with the consequences. There’s a certain courage in that.

“So,” I say.

“So,” she repeats, raising her eyebrows, almost defiantly, but does not move otherwise.

“Hussy?!”

She chuckles lightly, balancing on her knees like a toddler.

“I knew that got into your head.”