“You know. Fluids spewing out of both ends. Double-dragon.” Tracey does some truly unfortunate gestures to drive her point across.

I purse my lips. “Is this story going somewhere? Because I’m attempting to eat a cookie over here, and there’s about seventy-five percent too much vomit talk happening.”

“Right. So anyway, Hannah and I were on our first date when this started. Like, we’d gone out to dinner, we were back at her house talking and drinking wine, and all of a sudden I had to run to the bathroom. Her bathroom.”

I put down my cookie. “You never told me this story!”

“Because I was embarrassed!” Tracey says, widening her eyes. “This was the worst first date ever. I was barfing all over the bathroom of this beautiful woman I had a massive crush on.”

I wince, peering out from under my hand, like that will protect me from the secondhand embarrassment of this story. “Was she grossed out? Did she start sympathy barfing?”

Tracey shakes her head, a tiny smile on her face. “She made me a bed on her spotless bathroom floor, then she put a cold washcloth on my forehead. She slept right outside the bathroom door and checked on me every thirty minutes all night. And then the next day, she let me stay all bundled up on her couch, drinking Sprite and watching PBS.”

“So you locked that down,” I say, nodding in approval.

“I locked that down,” she agrees. “And all I’m saying is . . . when you’re with the right person, you’ll know. You’ll feel safe and taken care of and like you can barf and shart without shame.”

“The dream!”

“I think you’re kidding, but I’m not.”

I shake my head. “I know that Nick and I have the chemistry of star-crossed lovers on a long-running sitcom. But you know what happens when that couple finally gets together five seasons in?”

Tracey shrugs. “I don’t know. We only watch baking competitions, and the contestants rarely have sexual tension.”

“The show ends, because it sucks,” I tell her. “And anyway, Nick’s not even interested in me. Every customer who comes in is interested in him and he’s probably having phone sex right now with a cute girl in a heart-printed dress.”

“I seriously don’t get you.” Tracey checks her phone. “And my break was definitely over five minutes ago.”

“Then I guess I’m off to visit Dad.” I tuck the small box of cookies into my tote bag. “Get me this recipe from Hannah, please. I want to make it for the shop. Ni . . . Our customers are gonna love it.”

Tracey rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t stop yourself from talking about Nick in front of me, okay?”

“There’s nothing there,” I mutter, rooting around in my purse so I can avoid meeting her eyes. “We kissed once. Big deal.”

“Ooookay,” Tracey says. “Tell Mr. Sanderson that Tracey says hi.”

“Will do.” I pull her into a hug, and then we exit the break room, her going to the front desk and me going down the long hallway that leads to Dad’s room. The carpet is a brown floral print, all the better to hide stains, and the walls are covered in striped tan wallpaper. This color scheme is my nightmare, but as I walk past the doors, each decorated with a resident’s name, some of them accessorized by children’s drawings or seasonal wreaths, I remind myself that this is the best place for Dad, even if the décor is as bleak as an Ohio winter.