Mr. Watley had reluctantly agreed to my deal, so I kept my end of the bargain. I walked to Jacob’s apartment and left his homework with Serge the Concierge.

Probably not what Mr. Watley had in mind, but too bad.

The next morning, Saturday, I texted Rachel and asked if she wanted to come over.

She texted back yes.

My parents were over the moon to see Rachel at our place two days in a row after almost two years. They fussed over her in an embarrassing way. When we finally escaped to my bedroom, she dumped out the contents of her tote bag on my floor. “It’s everything we need to make those cheese grater earring holders.”

I was fixing little metallic feet to the base of a grater with my glue gun when she asked, “Have you heard from Jacob?”

“No.”

“Have you reached out to him?”

“Can we not talk about it? I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just—I don’t want to think about him, or any of it. Just for a little while.”

“Of course.” And for the next hour we crafted together, chatting about nothing in particular. It was wonderful.

At eleven the buzzer sounded, announcing the arrival of the Watleys. “This should be interesting,” Rachel said. “I’ve never seen Mr. Watley out of his natural habitat before.”

Mom let them in. “Hello,” said Mr. Watley. “I’m Ronald, and this is my wife, Ethel.”

Rachel and I did our best not to stare, but it was anthropologically fascinating, seeing Mr. Watley outside of school. He wore loose-fitting old-people jeans, a golf shirt, and bright orange socks. Mrs. Watley—Ethel—was equally intriguing. She was all about multiple floral prints. I immediately admired her and her bold fashion choices.

“Can we offer you some tea?” asked Mom.

“That sounds lovely,” said Ethel.

We settled into the living room. I found Alice and Stanley, and put Alice on Mr. Watley’s lap and Stanley on Ethel’s.

“What sweet things!” Mrs. Watley said. “They’re like two peas in a pod.”

“Do you think it would be all right if we changed their names to Fred and Ginger?” asked Mr. Watley.

I thought about Koula, who’d picked up Pippi/Lorena Bobbitt with her dad the night before. “Fred and Ginger are great names,” I said.

The Watleys had brought along their pug’s carrier, so when it was time for them to leave, they took Alice and Stanley with them. I gave them a bunch of catnip toys I’d made. Mom kept it together surprisingly well. “I’m happy they’re going to a loving home,” she said.

After the Watleys had left, Rachel and I finished our earring holders. At around five o’clock she got a text from her mom. “My parents are wondering if you’d like to come for dinner,” she said.

She watched me closely. I took longer to answer than was polite.

This was it. It was now or never.

“Okay.”

—

Rachel lived on the main floor of an old heritage home in the heart of the West End. Her parents had bought it years ago and renovated it, and now rented out the basement and top floor.

We walked up the front steps together. I felt sick with trepidation. Rachel unlocked the door and stepped inside.

I stayed where I was.

Rachel’s parents, Holger and Hilda, appeared in the foyer. “Petula. It’s so good to see you again.” Holger, a big bear of a man, pulled me inside. Both he and Hilda gave me a hug.

“I’m making macaroni with three cheeses for dinner,” Holger said.

I smiled. He knew it was my favorite dish, along with his grilled three-cheese sandwiches and quattro formaggi pizzas. Rachel’s family loves cheese. “That sounds amazing,” I said.

“I was sorry to hear about your parents’ separation,” Hilda said. “Rachel told me.” She squeezed my arm.

“You girls can go on into the living room. We’ll holler when food’s ready,” said Holger.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” asked Rachel.

I shook my head. “No. It wasn’t.”

We headed into the living room.

Owen was sitting on the couch, watching a Blue’s Clues rerun.

He was so cute. He still had apple-red cheeks and a shock of blond hair, but he was a little bit leaner, a little bit taller.

“Hey, Owen,” said Rachel. “Remember Petula?”

Owen looked at me. I held my breath. Last time I’d seen him, he’d screamed that I’d killed his sister.

“Steve doesn’t need strawberries for the banana cake,” he said to me.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m going to go help my parents,” said Rachel. She left the room. It was a stinker of a move.

I stood where I was.

“He needs two cups of flour,” Owen said, still looking at me.

“I think maybe it’s three cups,” I said.

“No, silly! It’s two.” He bounced up and down on the couch. “Come sit.”

I perched beside him on the couch. He watched the TV, and I watched him.

Yes, he made me think of Maxine. But seeing him didn’t make me feel worse. It didn’t make me miss her any more or any less.

Owen didn’t make me miss Maxine because he wasn’t Maxine.

“A clue!” he shouted.

“Where?” I said, pretending I couldn’t see it.

“There!” He pointed at the screen.

“Where?”

“There, silly.”

This is what I was so afraid of. This little boy. The thought made me laugh. Which made Owen laugh.

We watched Blue’s Clues and giggled until Holger called us in to supper.