“Probably something stupid,” she says in a voice that lets me know she’s definitely thought about this a hundred times. “More travel-themed stuff, maybe. Miguel and I have talked a million times about going to Havana one day to see where his grandfather grew up, but honestly, I’m happy to go anywhere that’s farther than Georgia. I’ve never gone beyond this little corner of the US.”

“What else?”

She hugs her knees to her chest. “Okay, so, there’s this really funky artist who does pop art—you know, like Andy Warhol stuff—of celebrities, and not that I’m a starfucker or anything, but there’s this one print she has of Lizzo that’s amazing. I’m obsessed. It’d go right over there.” She points at a spot on the far wall. “And I would definitely have a more modern desk, maybe one made of, like, smoky glass or something. I saw one on a show once and I thought it was the coolest thing.”

“This is turning into a very eclectic room.”

“Oh, I know. I have no cohesive taste. That’s why it’s probably for the best that a sixty-five-year-old woman designed this one. If it were up to me, and I could afford anything, I’d replace that light fixture with one of those little chandeliers from the bathroom at Gutter Kittens. You know, the ones with the purple glass beads? God, it would be so ugly.”

“Why stop at the chandeliers? Why not just decorate the whole thing like the inside of your favorite bowling alley?”

“Yes!” Her smile lights up the entire room. “Who needs wheat-colored carpet when you could have an aubergine-and-forest-green paisley? And these walls would definitely benefit from stripes.”

“And there’s your design for shoe storage,” I point out. “Right under your Lizzo art, you can have those wooden cubes and fill them with all the bowling shoes you can dream of.”

“Gosh, that sounds beautiful,” Amber says dreamily.

“Doesn’t it? And you already have a trophy case.” I gesture to the small one on her wall, full of gold-tone cheerleaders and medals. “This place practically is Gutter Kittens already.”

“Okay, I think this is starting to depress me,” she says, but she’s laughing.

I glance at the door, which is still cracked open, and decide to take my chances and crook my finger in her direction. She hops off the bed and sits her tiny butt on my lap, and our lips meet for a kiss.

“What about cheerleading?” I ask when we part, fiddling with the ends of her hair. “Was that grandmother-influenced too?”

“Nope, that was all me. I know you think it’s silly, but it’s not just, like, a bunch of girls jumping around in short skirts.”

“Hey, I know it’s not,” I say, and I do, but also, isn’t it, kind of?