I bite my knuckles to keep a weird bubble of laughter from escaping.

“Tell me more about how you two met.”

There’s a strange note in Grandpa’s voice, which I wonder if Hall will detect; it sounds an awful lot like he knows something he shouldn’t and is toying with my fiancé.

“How we met,” Hall repeats. You do not have to know Hall at all to detect his sudden nerves. A stranger would spot it from across the street. I appreciate poor Hall’s dilemma here: he’s goodness and light, but lying is required in this situation. Lying to my nice, polite grandpa twice in one day. While my nice, polite grandpa stares him directly in the eyes. In the sanctity of a kitchen brimming with Christmas desserts.

“Yes, I’d love to hear the whole story,” Grandpa replies, and I’m very glad to be on this side of the door.

“Um. Well. We met, which was lovely. And we were both instantly attracted to each other. Physically and emotionally.”

“Don’t spare any details, son.”

“I . . . we kissed. Twelve times, on that first day.” He hesitates, perhaps gauging Grandpa’s reaction. “Fifteen? Twenty. We kissed twenty times.” His phony reminiscing goes a bit dreamy when he adds, “It was wonderful.”

“I see.” Grandpa is clearly entertained. “What makes you think you’re ready to get married?”

I strain to pick up every syllable. Whatever Hall’s about to say feels so significant that my balance is affected—I shift my weight from one foot to the other, a hot prickle on the nape of my neck, similar to the eerie sensation of being watched from afar. His answer doesn’t matter. None of this does. I should flounce right in, interrupting them.

I’m a statue.

“When it’s right, it’s right, you know?” Hall’s stock response is for the best, and I have no business being let down by it. We’re not really engaged. So he doesn’t really like me that way, even though I’ve felt myself growing to feel . . . differently, about him. I can’t help it. He’s so sweet, I really had no choice in the matter. “She and I are different, but . . .” He considers the question more carefully. “She’s a type of fun that I admire but that wouldn’t be natural if I tried to emulate it. And I’m a type of fun that I think is good for her to be around, but that she isn’t vulnerable enough to emulate herself. It’s an unusual match, maybe, but the influence we’ve been on each other is . . . pleasing.”

An inner light clicks on. Oh.

“Anyway.” Hall clears his throat. “Hear anything lately about the Wall Street? Or the Broncos? Let’s talk about mallard ducks.”

“Let’s talk about the sequins I found glued to the mallard ducks in my study,” Grandpa readily agrees.

“I bedazzled them. You’re welcome.”

“Do you think you and Bettie’ll want kids?”

My forehead thuds against the door, which is thankfully masked by Hall’s loud cough. He regains his composure after a few seconds, sputtering out: “Mallards are omnivores. Their outer feathers are waterproof. They are the most common wild duck in the Northern Hemisphere. Egg incubation takes twenty-seven to twenty-eight days.”