Joy shakes her head in disbelief. Grace is right. Fox is right. They really don’t communicate anymore. She’s never been afraid to talk to Malcolm about anything, and here she is, so terrified about what he’ll say to her, she’s shaking. But she has to know. They can’t stay in limbo like this forever.

“Can you at least talk to me, then? I don’t understand what’s going on with you at all right now.”

“Not yet. I’m still trying to figure out how to do this.” Malcolm can barely look at her, but she sees the tension in his stance: fist balled in his pockets, jaw set, determined to not stand too close to her. “In the meantime, like I said, Summer would love it if you came.”

Fox, she thinks. Fox said he’ll be there too. The thought of seeing him fills her with electric anticipation. A welcome relief.

“Okay,” Joy says, unlocking her car. “I’ll follow you there.”

Summer lives in a suburban neighborhood, flush with the kind of houses that all look similar enough for non-residents to easily get lost. She parks behind Malcolm after he stops in front of a gray house trimmed with white, two stories high, with an abundance of windows. Summer mentioned having roommates. Between three or more people, a house that size in a neighborhood that screamed Model Houses! Visit today! could definitely be affordable.

Malcolm walks next to her up the stone path leading to the front door. He rings the bell, and she presses the pleats in her skirt to make sure they look neat. After talking to Fox last night, Joy woke up feeling giddier than she’s felt in years. That giddiness translated to a plaid mini skirt and matching jacket à la Clueless.

Someone with long black hair, a chubby, ruddy face, wearing the cutest daffodil dress Joy has ever seen, opens the door. They greet Malcolm like an old friend with an accusatory, “You’re late.”

“Never.” He grins as he moves inside and then turns back. “Sally, this is Joy. Joy, this is Sally.”

“Joy?” Sally blinks.

Someone else in the house says, “JOY? SHE’S ACTUALLY HERE?” loud enough to make Joy’s eyes widen. Straight to the back there’s a kitchen, and someone wearing a full-blown pirate costume marches to the door with a perplexed expression on their face. “HOLY SHIT, SHE’S REAL.”

Having had enough of being gawked at, Joy says, “Is there a reason why you thought I wasn’t?”

The pirate has on a bright red wig and an eye patch. Her sun-kissed skin looks radiantly natural, like she was born with it instead of it coming from a tanning bed. “He talks about you so much but never brought you around. I figured you were some sort of delusional imaginary best friend. Bring it in, come on!”