I hope his words pop into their brains in the middle of a random Tuesday and they start laughing seemingly out of nowhere.

Because Quincy Michael Barrantes isn’t just comedy gold.

He’s just gold, period.

13

We hit up this Italian spot for our celebratory dinner because Q’s got a hankering for pasta and Whit says she’ll murder someone for a slice of tiramisu—which, satisfying a craving and preventing homicide, no-brainer.

My phone rings midway through dessert.

“How was your evening in studio prison?” Mr. Oklahoma asks.

“I’m not gonna lie, man. You knowing the intimate details of our lives is kinda scary. Anyway, Q brought the house down. Even you would’ve laughed.”

“Suppose he’d collapsed on that stage,” he says. “Then what?”

“That’s no way to live, Mr. O.”

A beat.

“I am glad it worked out for Quincy.”

“Me too.” And maybe it’s rude to say, but. “Mr. Oklahoma, I didn’t like you when I first met you.”

“I’m not here to be liked.”

“I said when I first met you.”

“I know what you said.”

This guy. “So, is that it? You just called to talk about how well Operation Get Q on Later Tonight worked?”

“No, Jamal.” A long pause. “I just called to say good job. So, good job, Jamal.”

Before I can reply, he’s gone.

12

Whit orders a car, and we stand in a huddle outside the bistro.

“Where to next?” Ms. Barrantes asks.

I smile. “I mean, only one of us got dessert.” Whit shoots me a death look.

Autumn taps best dessert in NYC, reads us a list of choices.

“Q, you choose,” I say.

But he shakes his head. “Damn, word? A brother should die more often.”

Except when the car comes, I take Autumn’s hand, stop Q from getting inside.

“Let’s walk,” I say. “It’s only a few blocks.”

Q smiles. “Uh-oh, you got that look in your eyes.”

“Look? What look?” I laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

11

What I finally understand about Q’s Comedy Hour, about Jauncy, is that it wasn’t just about being funny.

It was about two kids finding their voices.

Learning to believe in themselves.

And maybe, most of all, it was a way to bring people together.

And, sometimes, reunite them.

10

That night, before we fall asleep, Autumn already snoring lightly, I turn to Whit, a nightstand between our beds, and I ask her—

“How did I get so lucky?”

And at first, I can’t be sure she’s awake—the room dark save for the slant of city lights stretching across the top of the pulled curtains—so I ask her again.

“Hey, you awake? ’Cuz I’m serious, Whit. I haven’t felt this happy since . . . thank you for being the coolest sister ever, and I’m not even just saying that because I’m in a good mood.”