The door slams open as if on cue, and she comes flying in, nearly tipping the drink tray. Her arms are full of greasy bags; she’s even got one in her mouth. I take the drinks and reach for the bag in her teeth. She growls before letting go, and I roll my eyes.

“Don’t think you’re getting any of those cheese fries just because you helped carry them,” she says.

I laugh and bring it all into the living room, flicking on the TV and dropping onto the giant couch. I’m not totally sure if we’re allowed to eat in here—I mean, Dad never does—but the way Gray follows me without hesitating says it’s probably okay. I bet they do this kind of thing a lot.

I pretend that thought doesn’t sting.

“How are you settling in?” she asks, pulling out various plastic containers full of more food than we can possibly eat. There are burgers and onion rings and chicken wings and regular fries and, yes, cheese fries, which Gray immediately slides out of my reach.

I huff and grab one of the burgers; it’s about the size of my head and oozing BBQ sauce. “Everything’s great.”

“And Dad?” She shoves a cheese fry in her mouth.

“Is great too. He seems glad I’m here.” Gray is the queen of seeing what she wants to see, has been forever, so I know she won’t catch the lie. The truth is, I still can’t really tell what he thinks, and I spend most of the time staring at my phone, waiting for Peak to text.

Gray wipes her hands on a napkin, her mouth pinching in thought. “I know it’s been . . . complicated between you guys, but I’m glad it’s going good. This could be a chance for you guys to reconnect. It’s been a long time.”

She says it like that’s normal, like being seventeen and still not having a connection with your dad is a regular thing. Maybe it is. I don’t know. But I know that she and Dad—and she and Mom, for that matter—are practically best friends, so it seems a little bit like bullshit to me. My parents used to joke that Gray and I were so far apart in age that they had two “only children.” But that always just felt like a nicer way of saying all they had was a daughter and the accident that came after her.

“Hey.” She pulls a small box out of her bag and tosses it into my lap. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

I pick it up, my fingers tracing over the silver letters stamped into the side of the black box. “What’s this?”

“Open it.” She shrugs, taking another bite.