She doesn’t trust me. No, it’s not that she doesn’t trust me—she doesn’t trust Claire. Isobel has always been overprotective, and ever since the diagnosis…she’s been even more so. A real ride-or-die friend.

“Fine. Ten minutes.” She caves, turning to me. “If you need me before then, for anything, I’ll be in the car.”

“I said I’ll be okay, Izzy.” I smile to reassure her.

Isobel stares at me, and then at Claire, before turning swiftly on her heels, heading down the steps. Claire leads me inside, closing the door behind me.

The McIntyre home is the type of home you’d expect from a rich family. Everything is made of polished cherry wood, with the most advanced technology. As we walk past the living room, I see a seventy-inch TV, hundreds of books, Alexa devices in almost every room, paintings that I know are worth thousands, and family portraits of a happy all-American family, with a mother, a father, a redheaded older son, and a brown-haired younger one.

It’s too perfect, honestly.

But Claire doesn’t stop walking, and I appreciate that, because if we keep walking, keep moving, nothing about how weird this all is can set in, seep into my bones, and paralyze me.

“She’s a fiery one, isn’t she?” Claire asks.

“Isobel’s protective of me.”

“I’m glad you have someone like that.” She leaves it at that. At the end of the hallway, there’s a pair of double sliding doors, in the same wooden pattern as the floor. Behind it, muffled, I can hear a voice. It sounds like a man.

My heart races. Was Isobel right? Not only do I think about how she would never let me live it down but I also flash to my parents. I lied to them about where Isobel and I were going tonight. It came out before I could process it, and there was no going back. They think we’re seeing a movie and getting dinner, and they were eager to let me have some fun—especially with someone they trusted.

But now, I’m thinking that might have been a mistake.

Claire opens the sliding doors, and they glide smoothly without a sound. Inside is their dining room, which is as big as my kitchen, living room, and foyer combined. Three large windows take over the right wall, with a table that seats at least ten people in the middle. But only one man sits at it.

“Greg, Andre. Andre, Greg. My husband.”

Greg smiles broadly, a warmer grin than Claire’s. It reminds me of my father: welcoming, calming, and friendly.

“Nice to meet you, Andre. Take a seat, we have plenty.”

Of course: a dad joke.