“Did you go home?” Bec turns. Her olive skin radiates around tired, unfocused eyes. Her smile cracks her face wide open, and Crystal marvels at it—this superpower her friend will never again glimpse.

“I didn’t, actually. Just went for a nice, long walk.” She crosses to the coffeepot and pours herself a cup. “Jackson asleep?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bec slips onto a bar stool. “When he stops napping an hour after he’s awake, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Is he sleeping through the night already?” Crystal leans against the counter.

“Mostly.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever even heard him cry.”

Bec laughs. “Oh, he cries. Trust me.”

“I’ve never heard him.” True, she hasn’t been around Jackson a lot, but if he’s with Rebecca, he’s always asleep in his stroller or snug against her chest. She probably hasn’t even seen his face more than one or two times.

Crystal sweeps her hair over one shoulder. This morning, Savi brushed her mother’s hair and told her how much she looked like Elsa from Frozen. After she was done, Crystal had offered to brush her daughter’s hair, which was always tangled and tossed in a scruffy ponytail. As usual, they argued about it until Savi threw the brush on the floor and stormed off.

Bec moves her head to the side until it gives an audible pop. She rolls her shoulders a few times, her muscles knotted from playing cello. Savi does the exact same thing after practicing. Bec gently pats her thighs, her pale pink pajama bottoms nearly swallowing her. “Okay, plans. What do we have?”

Crystal almost thinks about picking up their earlier conversation and diving a little deeper. There are so many things she wants to know: Is Bec used to sleeping on her own yet? Does she still find herself doing Chris’s laundry or calling for him in the next room when she needs to ask a question? Does she pick up her phone to text him? Because Crystal does.

Instead of losing herself to that steady downhill battle of depressing questions and answers, she unrolls her designs across the kitchen counter. She takes her time explaining every detail and runs Bec’s fingers over different samples she pulls from her bag. She lets her choose cabinet finishes, knobs and handles, and the appropriate type of quartz.

“I love it all.” Bec taps blunt, unpainted nails on the blueprints. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to change this kitchen?”

Crystal assesses the brown cabinets, the scuffed countertops, the gummy tile under her shoes. “I’m guessing a while?”

“Almost thirty years. I remember going to friends’ houses as a child and wanting kitchens like theirs. This one is just…”

“It’s the bones that matter. It’s got good bones.”