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Oliver was at his desk when I came in, and he looked up and smiled. “Hi, Kat. Good morning.”

I felt myself grinning back at him. “Hi,” I answered. “I brought this for you.” I put the paper cup on his desk. He had his own coffee machine here but I knew that he liked the frothy milk from the café in the lobby.

“Thank you.” He took off the lid and blew gently across the foam, making ripples. “I heard that you went shopping yesterday. Gramps sent some action shots.” He showed me an image on his phone, me with my mouth open and gesturing at the photographer to stop taking pictures.

“That’s a great one. He should have it printed.” I thought of the picture that Gramps did have printed, of me with his grandson. The frame was hidden in my desk drawer at home.

I was probably blushing, since I had fully understood the subtext behind that gift. I hadn’t admitted anything about that to Gramps when I had texted to say thank you, and I hadn’t responded when he had urged me to think about things, maybe make a move. I was probably blushing again now, as I remembered it, so I turned my back to put my own cup down on my desk.

When I had come here last week for the first time (after Oliver’s strong urging), I had found that piece of furniture here, ready for me. “It was an extra one floating around this floor,” he had explained. “I just pulled it in for you to use.”

“Was this chair someone’s discard, too? Because it’s really nice,” I’d told him as I tested it out. It was much, much nicer than the one I had in my living room, which Maël had been using it as a prop for his handstands.

“Uh, I guess,” he had answered vaguely. “You like blue, don’t you?”

“It’s my favorite color.” The chair was actually perfect, in a shade that was similar to his eyes but of course not half as nice.

I put myself in that seat and behind the desk, and then we both worked quietly. We did talk every once in a while, about a funny thing that I had read the night before, about a weird thing he had seen on his way in this morning, and about our plans for Christmas. I saved the gossip about Gramps and the Milaflores Building manager until we had lunch together, which he had made and brought for both of us. He had unpacked his moving boxes, the ones he hadn’t opened since he’d left California. Apparently, he enjoyed using the kitchen gear inside them, and this food was delicious.

“I got more information about the feud between your grandpa and Mrs. McGlothen,” I said as I munched on a homemade kale chip.

“I thought he’d spill if you asked him. He has such a soft spot for you.”

“Does he?” I smiled again. “I kind of feel like he’s my grandpa, too.”

“Good. Another person to love him,” Oliver said. “Do you want more sparkling water?”

“Thank you.” It was my favorite flavor, peach. As I sipped, I told him what I’d learned about how their bad feelings had begun with Mrs. McGlothen’s play for him.

“Gramps, ladies’ man,” he commented. “I knew there was more to the story.”

“I don’t think that’s all there is,” I said. “He was definitely hiding something else. It doesn’t have to be bad, like that he’s totally out of money, but there’s something.”

“And speaking of people who are broke, how was everything with your mom over the weekend?”

“Not great. I had to get out of the apartment so I spent a lot of time at the Detroit Institute of Arts on Saturday. Hours and hours,” I answered. I had run away from my home, where I had thought I would never leave. “I made a list of things she needed to get done today and one was to work on her résumé. She’s going to have to get a job, but I have no idea where she’ll even start.”

“Has she ever worked?”

I shook my head. “Not in a sustained way and not at anything that resulted in her getting money from it. She always has a lot of ideas, but not a lot of follow-through. Not really any of that.”

“What’s her education?”

“I think she graduated from high school,” I said, but I wasn’t actually certain. “I’m not sure what to do about her future.”

“What about your grandparents?” he suggested. “They could step in.”

“No, she hates them. But you know what?” I asked, seized with inspiration. “We should both work on reconciliations. Gramps could reconcile with your dad and I could try to get my grandparents to apologize to my mom for how they were neglectful and negligent. They can make it up to her now by taking care of her.”

“I’ve been working on my dad for a while now,” Oliver told me. “I keep telling him that life is short and he shouldn’t wait to make things better and be happy. How would he feel if he missed the chance?”

I swallowed hard and put down my sandwich. “Don’t say that. I don’t want to think about that.”

“Life’s short, Kat,” he repeated. “You never know what will happen next.”

I knew he was right. I thought about the bookshelves swaying in the La Grieta Library and the smell of natural gas, thick in the air. I had been talking a lot to my online therapist about that day, because she thought it was interesting that I remembered it all so clearly, like it had just happened last week.

But I didn’t want to think about any of it, not about earthquakes or people dying, not even about my mom getting a job. “What did you do over the weekend?” I asked him to divert us.