I honestly haven’t had enough time to formulate any expectations about my uncle, James, but if I had, he would have exceeded them within the first thirty seconds.

I spot Betty first, walking into the restaurant on the arm of a good-looking, very tall, sandy-haired man with a trimmed beard and kind eyes.

“James,” I say softly.

He flashes a smile full of white teeth and answers, “Meg?”

I reach out to hug Betty first, and it feels like something I’ve been doing forever. James holds out a hand. “I’m a hugger,” he warns. “But I’m also a stranger, so—”

I cut him off with my arms. “I’m a hugger, too,” I confess. His embrace is short and sweet, and then we’re sitting down at a booth.

Betty breaks the ice after the server takes our drink order. “So, what have you been up to since I saw you last?”

“I got a job,” I say brightly. “And I jumped off a cliff today!”

“Black Rocks?” James asks.

“I think so, yeah? On the shore of Lake Superior? Have you been?”

Betty shakes her head, her purple hair framing her face in chin-length layers. “Not in decades. But I did go as a teen, and I remember what it was like to free-fall long enough to think, ‘I’m still in the air.’”

“Unreal,” I admit. “I nearly chickened out.”

“I chickened out my first time. I was with your dad, actually. Wow.” James laughs. “That’s very weird to say.” I nod like, You’re telling me. “I was fifteen, and I got all the way up there with Drew and his friends, and I couldn’t do it. Hiked back down dry. Drew teased me for months. After he died, I went back and made myself go.” He shakes his head, lost in the memory. “I was stupid. Reckless. It was too early in the season, and I could have gotten hypothermia. But I didn’t … Except this one time when I went to Dead River Falls … well…” James scratches at his beard, hesitating, and shakes his head. “Anyway. I’ve gone back every year on that same day ever since, because I can. You know?”

I shrug. Because while I do know, I also don’t. I didn’t lose Andrew. I never had him.

We order our food, and James asks me questions about school and my mom. I tell them about ice-skating, and James tells me one of his jobs is driving the Zamboni at the rink. “If you’re interested in teaching, I can pass along your name. They’re always looking for qualified instructors.”

“That would be incredible,” I say. “For so long, I couldn’t bring myself to skate if I wasn’t competing, but I’ve been missing the ice. I think I’m finally ready to go back, even if it’s just teaching little ones.”