“But whose baby will it be?” one contestant asked. She pointed at Nick’s photo. “Won’t be his. Not after she bonked his brother.”

“You can’t spell Lyons without lie,” said the comic, to great acclaim.

“You absolutely can. That is the only way to spell it,” I said to the TV. “That joke literally only works out loud.”

“Darling, switch to CNN or something,” Mom said, patiently brushing crimson polish onto her pointer fingernail and then holding it up to inspect her work. “It’s midnight somewhere.”

“It is about to be midnight in my Champagne glass.” I grabbed the bottle I’d brought and slowly turned the cork and held the bottle still. Or was I supposed to hold the cork and turn the bottle? One of them stopped the cork from—

Thunk. The cork shot out of the bottle and bounced off the monitor next to Eleanor’s bed before settling on the floor. The machine beeped an admonishment at me. Marta, asleep in a chair on the other side of Eleanor, woke with a start.

“What in the bloody hell,” she said.

“Sorry,” I said guiltily.

“Is that Marta? Are you having a nice night, Your Majesty?” Mom called out.

“Yes, it was a fright, and no, it wasn’t particularly nice,” Marta said hotly. She waved her cane toward Eleanor’s TV, which had been placed at the foot of her bed so that she and the nurses could entertain themselves. “Graham Norton, please,” she said. “He’s cheeky.”

“I texted Nick to tell him to have fun tonight, and he sent back clinking Champagne glasses and then googly eyes and the flexing arm.” I frowned, toying with the stem of my glass. “Does that mean anything or do we think he butt-emoji’d me?”

“You are asking the wrong person,” Mom said.

“It means he’s planning to drink his weight in bubbly,” Marta said at the same time. I hadn’t realized she was listening. She hadn’t even turned toward me when she spoke.

“I don’t know how we got to a place where I have to speak fluent emoji,” I grumbled.

“You were right to make him and Freddie talk it out,” Mom said. “None of those feelings were going to disappear on their own.”

“I guess so,” I said. “Not that it did any good. And now I feel like I went through an emotional wood chipper.”

“I should’ve flown over.”

“No, this is not how you want to ring in 2016,” I said. “I’m just wallowing.”

“Amen,” Marta said, still looking at the TV. “Oh, that Mark Wahlburger is hunky.”

Mom leaned in. “Did she say Mark Wahlberg looks funky?” she asked.

“He certainly does not look chunky,” Marta replied, offended.

“Can you guys both stay all night?” I asked. “This is better than any party.”