I shake my head, dumbfounded.

“Helping him out, like he helped her out when she needed capital for a makeup line.”

“I didn’t know Athena had her own makeup line.”

“It fell through. She didn’t come to us when that happened, either, and when I found out, we had a long talk. She thought I’d insist on giving her money, which she didn’t want from me. But all I wanted was to be there for her, give her support.”

“And advice,” Dad interjects huffily. “We’re not half bad at it, you know. We didn’t come by all this wisdom for nothing. Let us pass it along to you.”

Mom smiles. “Athena’s going to be trying again, with different products, when she’s ready.”

“Yes, we do want you to be independent adults,” Dad adds as I digest this new information, “but we also want you to let us know when you’re in trouble, in times when you can’t be independent. Shit happens. We’re here for you when it does. And if you want, you’re welcome to move back in with us temporarily until you’re back on your feet.” He says it so confidently, as though he has no doubt I’ll prevail.

“Thanks, I appreciate that. But I’m going to keep living here for a while, I think. I got a new place downtown.” All I need now is a job.

Mom and Dad, mouths open, are the picture of shock. “You want to stay in Teller City?”

“Yeah. I mean, I know I go on about how much I love the beach, but . . .” I think of Hall and me together in the red truck, driving above the valley, its glowing grid, beams shooting up into the clouds like searchlights. I see us caroling in the streets, all the smiling, friendly faces in doorways. The dollhouse that flowered between two buildings, which I’m going to call home, and that tight-knit sense of belonging that I’ve come to associate with Teller City. Wouldn’t it be lovely to preserve a shred of the way Christmas makes me feel now that I’ve known Hall, to hold that feeling close all the time? “I like it here,” I finish. “The town’s grown on me. Besides, you can’t beat the free grocery deliveries, and the complimentary tire-changing services.”

“Complimentary tire-changing?” Dad’s eyes zip to Grandpa, who shakes out his newspaper and disappears behind it, like Hall does whenever he wants to memorize new weather forecast phrases. “Is that a thing?”

“Who knows?” Grandpa replies airily. “I’m all the way up here on this hill. Don’t know about anything that goes on down there.”

Dad just stares at him, then at me. I wonder how long my grandparents have known I’ve been lurking on their turf, or why they let me get away with my production of Look How Great Bettie Is Doing. Then again, Grandma’s an exceedingly proud woman to whom image is everything, and I get more than just my name from her. Perhaps she understood.