My dad tosses the onions into a big pot on the stove. They sizzle when they hit the oil. “You want to stir these while I chop the basil, Rachel? And add a pinch of salt in there, too, will ya?”

He tousles my hair as he walks by.

“Ew, don’t put your onion hands in my hair!” I say.

Just for that, he tousles my hair again.

“Dad!”

“Aw, relax, that was my knife hand. Nice and clean.”

My mom tosses the garlic on top of the onions. “Get stirring, Rach, before the onions stick to the bottom.” She wipes her eyes and half smiles at me. “You have a good day at the beach?”

“It was OK.” I grab a wooden spoon and stir everything around to coat it with oil.

“Rachel and Micah are still in a fight,” Ivy says. “And I ate too much junk and threw up. But now I feel better.”

My mom looks at me and raises her eyebrows, which is her way of telling me I screwed up without yelling at me for it.

“Why are you and Micah in a fight?” my dad asks. “Does this mean the wedding plans are on hold?”

I roll my eyes and go back to stirring. I am so tired of that stupid joke.

“Micah is jealous,” Ivy says.

“Jealous of what?” my mom asks.

“Ivy, maybe you should shut up now,” I say.

“She said ‘shut up’!” Ivy says. “Did you hear that?”

“Rachel, don’t say ‘shut up.’ It’s not nice.” My mom puts a pot of water on the stove and turns on the burner. “Everything OK with you and Micah?”

I shrug.

“If you want to talk about it, I’m here,” she says quietly.

“What kind of junk made you puke, buddy?” my dad asks.

Ivy begins to list all the treats she stuffed her face with while I keep stirring the onions and garlic, even though they don’t need it.

My mom reaches past me and dumps in a can of stewed tomatoes, then another. I stir and stir as everyone hustles around behind me. I think about my mom’s tears, and Micah not talking to me, and Cybil’s comment about all of us being fluid, and how she doesn’t like people based on their gender, and I wonder who she has a crush on, and —

“Hello!” calls a voice. “Anyone home?”

We all pause and look in the direction of the voice as Mr. Townsend appears in the kitchen doorway.

“Hi, neighbors!” he says.

My dad wipes his hands on his apron. “You must be Mr. Townsend. I’m Paul.” He reaches out to shake hands.

“Please, call me Bev. What a lovely home you have. It’s very . . . cozy.”