I blink. “I’m not looking for anyone to marry.”

She harrumphs. “Maybe your cousin can set you up with someone. She probably knows lots of available women.”

“She lives in Montreal.”

Mom waves this away as unimportant before launching into a detailed account of her last vacation with Aunt Francine. I don’t know why I’m so surprised. It’s completely on brand that my mother’s biggest concern is not whom I will one day marry, but only that I am married at all.

If I were a normal person, I’d probably be annoyed by this, but today I’m choosing to bask in the acceptance. Your father and I don’t care who you love. I hold the words in my heart, like precious uncut diamonds. It wasn’t the best conversation, but it has potential and it certainly went better than the first discussion I ever had on this topic.

As Mom chatters, I let my mind wander to what being out to my parents might look like. To bringing women home to Montreal to meet them, bringing Amy home specifically. Excited butterflies fill my stomach at the vision of her walking the cobblestones of Old Montreal, taking her on a tour of every Montreal smoked meat sandwich in the city, climbing Mount Royal on a busy Saturday—

“Sophie,” Mom exclaims. “You’re not even paying attention to me.”

I press my lips together to suppress my smile. “Merci, Maman.”

Her eyes widen and she shimmies in her seat. “I bet your cousin can find you a nice girl to settle down with.”

I sigh and take another sip of coffee. She’s doing her best with what she has. And today that’s enough.

Chapter Ten

Amy

Jeremy Chen answers the door like he does everything. With far more enthusiasm than the action deserves.

“Chamberses!” His voice echoes down the third-floor hallway of his new (to him) apartment building. The building itself tries to pass for new, but the layers of peeling paint and what looks like mold blooming from the carpet’s corners have ruined any chance of that.

He plasters himself against the wall to let us pass. My brother has to duck to get in. Jeremy’s hair has always had the habit of growing in whatever direction he doesn’t want it to, which means right now he wants it to grow down. I’d bet my Volkswagen that his hair brushes the top of his door, as well. This is an apartment for babies.

“Sick pad, bro.” Wesley takes in the one room with wide eyes and a big smile like the good friend he is. He meets my gaze, grimacing, as Jeremy struggles to close the door.

“It needs a little work.” Jeremy shrugs, like he heard our silent sibling dialogue. “But it’s not the apartment over my parents’ garage.”

“Does the apartment over your parents’ garage have mo—” Wes covers my mouth with his hand.

“What are we doing today?” he asks, instead.

I lick his palm, but he anticipated this and wipes it on my face.