“Indeed.” Millicent’s eyes laser-focus on me, and I wonder what I should say if she asks why I’m here. What’s the cover story? “You don’t look too good.”

“Oh. I . . .”

“She had a rough night,” Jack says mildly. “Let her be.”

Millicent nods knowingly. “Dear, whenever they can’t get it up, they sit on the edge of the mattress with their heads between their hands and whine like babies and turn it into our problem, but—”

I gasp. “Oh, no. No, no, that’s not what we—”

“She just found out she didn’t get a job,” Jack explains, unruffled. “But thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“If you say so.” Millicent seems unconvinced. Then her eyes light up with a glimmer of recollection “Wait. She’s not yours, is she? She’s the girlfriend of the one who always looks like he just stress-ate a crab apple over a trash can.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “You mean Greg? My brother? Your grandson?”

“How would I know? I have four children and seven grandchildren. How many names do you expect me to memorize?”

“Eleven would be a good start.”

“Bah.” Her eyes fix on me, sharp. “She is his, though.”

“Not really,” Jack says. “It’s a long story.”

“Perfect. You can tell me over coffee. Two sugars as always, Jack?”

“Yup.” He turns to leave again. “I’ll have it when I come back from taking Elsie—”

“Nonsense. Elsie must stay, too. I simply cannot let her leave.”

“Yes, you can, because kidnapping is a serious felony offense.”

“Pssh.”

“I’m driving her home and—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupt. They both look at me, stunned by my capacity for speech. “I don’t mind staying.”

“See? She doesn’t mind!” Millicent claps her hands and drops any pretense of helplessness, pulling three mugs from a cupboard that’s much higher than the one with the sugar. Jack hesitates, though. He takes a step closer and scans my face for traces of my little untruths.

“Really,” I say only for Jack’s ears, “it’s fine.”

“Fine? Spending unremunerated time with two Smiths?”

Staying perfectly suits my yellow-brick quest for the lesser evil, because it allows me to postpone informing Dr. L. of what happened or even dealing with the consequences of it. As long as I’m here, time is suspended. The past is set, and I didn’t get the job. Any future, however, is possible: AOC will rise to power to forgive my student loans. My pancreas will produce its own insulin. I’ll retire to the countryside, live off the land, and spend my days thinking about the kinematics of crystal-rich systems.

And Jack knows, because his bullshit detector works like a charm: he sees that I really want to stay and pulls back a chair for me; then our coats are off, we’re sitting across from each other, and I’m glancing around to avoid noticing that he’s focusing on me like I’m the key to understanding the free-fall acceleration of antimatter. Millicent begins transferring fancy jam thumbprint cookies from a fancy box to a fancy plate. I scan the wrapping for nutritional values, finding none.

“So,” she asks conversationally, “how long have you two been doing it?”

I gasp so hard, I nearly choke. Jack calmly pours his coffee, unruffled. “We’re not,” he says.

“You’re not what?”

“Doing it.”

Millicent looks between us. “Not even a little bit?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think I’d know if we were.” Jack piles sugar in his mug, and I want to fling myself into an active volcano.

“I certainly hope so. Oh well.” She shrugs quaintly. “I guess it’s for the best. You were always so protective of your brother—it would be a tad out of character for you to seduce his girlfriend.”

“Let’s not use the word seduce before eleven a.m., ’kay?” Jack stands and starts moving around the kitchen. “And let’s talk about something else, since Elsie’s in the middle of an anoxic event.”

I absolutely am. My organs are shutting down.

“What else shall we discuss? I am but a helpless elderly lady. Nothing ever happens to me. Ah yes: the neighbors’ dog has been defecating on my lawn again. I’m considering hiring someone to go defecate on theirs. Would either of you be interested?”

“I’m a bit busy,” Jack says. A second later, a steaming mug appears in front of me. Jack cages me from behind, one hand next to mine on the table, the other fussing with something papery. He steeps a tea bag in the hot water, and I feel his chest brushing against my back and hair as he says, “But Elsie is in the market for a new job.”

I twist around to glare at him, but he’s already back to his seat. Millicent, on the other hand, is giving me an expectant look.

“I—sorry, I . . . I can’t, and . . .” It’s probably illegal? “Sorry.”

“Second job offer she’s refused this morning,” Jack murmurs.

“Mmm. Picky. No matter, I’ll ask my other grandchildren, then. Perhaps strongly hint that their inheritance will depend on it?”

“Less helpless elderly lady and more bitter old hag territory,” Jack says fondly.

“Perhaps. What’s with the tea?” she asks Jack.

“Elsie doesn’t like coffee.”

“Oh.” There’s something loaded in that oh. “You could have said so, Elsie.”

“No, she couldn’t.” Jack’s eyes hold mine from above his mug. The dimple appears, making my heart stutter. The air between us smells like Earl Grey, raspberry jam, and early Sunday morning. “But we’re working on it.”

My phone is long dead, there are no clocks in the kitchen, and I have no clue how long we sit at the table. I’m occasionally part of the conversation, but neither Millicent nor Jack asks much of me, and it’s nice, being in this Smith limbo of sorts. Focusing on the way Jack and his grandmother interact, a combination of teasing and deep, utter love for one another. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a room so full of honesty before, but I’m positive that not a single lie has been uttered since I came into this house. It’s exhilarating, but in a stomach-dropping way. Like a roller coaster, or eating blue cheese.

Jack and Millicent, I discover, spend part of every weekend together—preferably through an ambush. “Last week’s ‘life-or-death emergency’ was that she needed Bitcoin explained to her,” he says dryly. It’s obvious that he doesn’t mind.

“I also don’t get Bitcoin,” I say after a long sip of tea—the third hot drink Jack’s made for me in twelve hours. Not sure how this is my life.

“See?” Millicent smiles triumphantly. “Greg’s maybe-girlfriend is on my side.”

Jack and Millicent know more about each other’s lives than any relative of mine ever did about me. She tracks with no difficulty names, places, events he mentions, and in turn he doesn’t miss a beat when she announces that she’ll wear a green dress to the Rutherford dinner, or after she complains that she finished her show and has nothing to watch.

“You did not finish it,” he says.

“I did.”

“I got you twelve seasons of Murder, She Wrote. You cannot have watched them in one week.”

“There are no more episodes on the TV.”

He stands with a sigh. “I’m going to switch the DVD. Be right back.”

I open my mouth the second he disappears, ready to fill the silence with some comment about the weather, but Millicent is already giving me one of her piercing looks. “You’re not a librarian, are you?”

I clear my throat. “No. I’m sorry I lied. It’s a long story, but—”

“I’m ninety—no time for long stories. What is it that you do, then?”

I fidget with the tea tag. “I’m a physicist.”

“Like Jack.”

“Sort of. Not really.” I keep my eyes on the mug. The state of my career is a sore point. “He’s a world-renowned professor. I’m just an adjunct. And he’s an experimental physicist, while I’m—”

“A theorist.” She nods. “Like his mom, then.”

I look up and blink at her. “His mom?” Is Millicent getting confused? Like Grandma Hannaway before passing, when she’d mix me up with her least favorite sister and yell at me for stealing her apron? “You don’t mean the one who . . .”