“Did you get hit by the rain on the boat today?”

“No.” But Joey followed his logic. Grant always knew the exact weather in like ten different cities. It was a dorky trait Joey loved. “We were in Fort Lauderdale though.”

“That explains it.” His eyes fixed on the glow-in-the-dark constellation.

Finally Joey whispered, “Grant, do you still want to marry me?”

“What?” He pulled her to him and kissed her forehead. “Of course, I want to marry you. Of course I do, baby.”

And then they lay in each other’s arms, and Joey didn’t have deserts, she didn’t have two Joeys, only Grant and the safety she felt with him and the pretend night sky blinking its stars from the wall.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Sarah

Florida
2019

“G, where did you put the mailbox?” called Joey from the kitchen.

“I moved it, darling. It’s in the oven.” Sarah heard rummaging and then the oven clanging. The moisturizing mask birthday present on her face bubbled. It was the height of skin-care innovation. Apparently. The mask was a frivolous thing she wouldn’t have ever thought to do prior to her granddaughters introducing her to the concept of skin care. Joey and Lily had brought an undeniable light to her life, along with a little hip-ness she’d never previously embodied. Even though Sarah didn’t understand most of the fashion and music her granddaughters talked about, she enjoyed listening to them and inhabiting their carefree world.

Sarah ventured a finger along her temple, and an edge of her mask curled off.

“Not yet! We still have five more minutes.” Joey reappeared with her own face Martian-silver, unwrapping a caramel candy.

Sarah smiled. She removed her hand from her face. When Joey was little, Sarah had bought a kitschy tin mailbox at the flea market. She’d filled it with treats so that, when Joey slept over, and then Lily, they’d find little surprises to collect. It still gave Sarah joy to watch Joey enjoying the traditions they’d developed.

“G, why did you move the mailbox inside the oven?”

“Well, I don’t use the oven anymore, darling.” Sarah propped up her feet on an ottoman. Her feet were clad in blue booties after being smothered in a solution that would cause them to peel intensely in three days and then unveil baby-smooth soles. They’d planned the timing of this spa session deliberately; with the wedding a week away, their feet would have time to shed and regenerate.

“Why don’t you use your oven?”