I make my own granola, roasting oatmeal with flax seed, wheat germ, sunflower seeds drizzled with honey, or maple syrup, and cinnamon, mixed with water. Sometimes I add almond extract. Sometimes I add vanilla. I stir it every ten minutes for forty minutes while it roasts at 300. Before I eat it, I toss in fruits and nuts. I add chopped walnuts and cherries to Rachel’s bowl and then milk. On mine, I sprinkle slivered crystallized ginger and almonds.

I’m almost out of cherries and almonds. I add them to the grocery list in my iPhone notes. The note says: dishwashing detergent, eggs, coffee, fabric softener, olive oil, cherries, almonds.

I hear Troy taking a shower.

Rachel delicately picks out the cherries and walnuts, one at a time. She places one in her mouth, concentrating as she consumes the flavor.

I take the opportunity to run upstairs and steal a few minutes with Troy. He’s just out of the shower, drying off. He looks up, surprised to see me.

I grab another towel from the rack and begin dabbing his back, slicked with water coursing around the bumps in his spine. When his back is dry, I stand on my tiptoes to kiss his shoulder. He turns me around and holds me close, his body warm and moist against me. The steamed mirror exposes a foggy image of us pressed together. Me in blue shorts and a yellow tee shirt, and his pinkish, beige length, the brown of his hair, like Rachel’s, fragments of colors blurred by condensation. He’s all one beautiful length and I fill with warmth every time I see him.

He gives me a kiss, slow and serious, enjoying the texture of my tongue and my lips. “I’ll be home early tonight,” he promises.

“I’ll be here,” I laugh.

I pull back to look at him, his face as dear and familiar as my own, as though he’s my mirror, another version of me. I kiss his nose. One of his ears misses a piece at the tip, and his other ear has it. As though each ear is a puzzle of pieces that have been split. Rachel has that, too. I touch his ears, and circle the shell of each of them, like a nautilus. I shake my head slowly, aware having him in my life has been a miracle.

“Ah, darling,” he says, and his eyes close. “Maybe tonight you could get a babysitter and we can just check into a motel. We can have the whole evening together.”

“On this short notice?” I laugh.

“You’ve been so sad and preoccupied since Mia’s death.” He wraps his arms tightly around me.

“Still can’t sleep.” And then I notice a pimple, swollen and red, on his shoulder. “Hey. That looks painful.” I point at it with my index finger.