“Do what? You asked my opinion and I answered. I don’t see it,” she says. “Do you want me to lie? Sure, okay, you two are great together. She’s super into you and no one else.”

“She’s nice,” Malcolm says. “And she really likes you.”

“For now. It won’t last because it never does.” Joy sighs, weary and tired. “Eventually, she’ll start thinking I’m around you too much, that you pay too much attention to me and not her, she’ll get mad, make you choose, and then I get put on standby.”

“I have never put you on standby,” Malcolm says, snapping with sudden anger.

Not true.

One time. He did it one time, but it’d be unbelievably cruel to mention her right then. He also didn’t even try to put a dent in the rest because he couldn’t. That’s how it always ends. An ultimatum and a goodbye.

He says, “I always choose you and you know it.”

“I’ve never asked you to do that. You don’t get to be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad. I’m . . . frustrated.”

“Because I don’t see it for you and Summer?”

“Because you never see it for me and anyone I date.”

“That’s not true,” Joy says, deciding to try and lighten the mood. She doesn’t want to fight with him. She doesn’t want him to be mad at her. She doesn’t want to feel like shit for making him upset she doesn’t she doesn’t she doesn’t—“There’s also Summer’s face.”

Malcolm frowns at her, deciding if he wants to take the bait. “What’s wrong with her face?”

“Forget Resting Bitch Face—”

“Joy, don’t.”

She couldn’t resist. “—and get ready for Resting Princess Face. She’s always smiling.”

With teeth, mouth closed, with her eyes, smizing. Summer’s entire body is one giant smiling superpower. She must not care about wrinkles—parentheses, crow’s feet, and all that.

Joy doesn’t either, not really. She likes cataloging the changes in her face, the new wrinkles, creases, and moles. That doesn’t mean she’s lazy with her skin care. She uses all the good stuff to help with things like replenishing elasticity and staying hydrated, but she isn’t obsessed with smoothing, tucking, or hiding. She wants to look her best—the best version of thirty-year-old Joy that there can be.

Malcolm asks, “You have a problem with her because she smiles too much?”

“Did I say that? Did I say it was a problem? All I did was point it out.” Joy grins.

Malcolm sits back, slumping against the couch. “I don’t understand what the problem is, then. She likes you. She’s trying damn hard to be friends with you”—he pauses—“and not like the others, okay? I know, I know. She’s the real thing.”

“Sure. If you say so.”