My middle name was chosen by my mom. My mother gave both Mabel and me middle names of cities that she wanted to someday visit—Paris and London. I don’t know if my mother has ever been, but when I was five, Mabel and I pinkie-promised that we’d go visit those cities together when we got older.

Now, because of Quinn’s brother, Mabel’s never going to be able to visit those cities.

I’m definitely not opening that box.

“Dinner’s ready,” Dad calls out. He steps out into the living room. He’s wearing what Mabel and I called his “Professor’s Coat” because it’s tweed with elbow patches. He swiftly corrected us that it would more appropriately be called a jacket than a coat, which for some reason made us burst out laughing. “Jacket,” Mabel would say for weeks after, and I would answer, “Coat!” and then we’d erupt into giggles all over again.

I instinctively wrap my arms around my stomach, feeling the memory of that laughter in my gut.

“You okay?” Dad asks.

Grams answers for me. “Cora’s heading up to her room real quick to check on something. I’ll put her plate in the oven to keep it warm.”

Dad looks unsure. I glare at Grams.

“Scrambled eggs don’t go in the oven,” I say.

“Oh, just watch. My old bones will find a way to keep your dinner warm.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not going upstairs.”

Dad steps back into the kitchen. He doesn’t like to get in the middle of my fights with Grams. She and I don’t have that many fights, but back in the day, Mabel and her used to have a bunch of what Grams calls “howlers.”

“Cora, baby.” Grams’s tone is gentler now. “Everyone in this house will feel better if you get it over with.”

I can feel hot tears pricking at my eyes. I pat them away with the back of my hand, embarrassed. This of all things should not be making me cry. “There’s nothing to get over.”

Grams raises her chin. “Open the box.”

I’m about to argue some more, but I can tell from the glint in Grams’s eyes that’s she’s already five steps ahead of me. Sometimes you can tell you’ve lost way before a game has been played out.

I move toward the staircase. Grams put the box right beside my bed yesterday. It’s been staring me down ever since. See? She’s a chess master.

I rest my weight back against the banister, but don’t walk up the stairs yet.

Grams keeps eyeing me. She smiles a little. “I’ll toast up an extra slice of bread for you.”

“My eggs will be cold.”

“Nonsense. I told you already, I’ll make sure they stay warm.”

“Still.”

“Cora London, go open the box.”

“I’m going to open it, look inside, and then toss everything away.”

“Whatever you want as long as you open it.”

As I clomp up the stairs, Grams calls up after me, “I’m proud of you, sweet pea.”