“Grams would love that,” I sign. “And I’d love to be a part of it… if your mom’s okay with it.”

“Oh man, my mom would flip if you joined her on it.” He kicks a box out of the way so he can get to me. “My mom loves you, Becs. She loves you as if you were her own. You know that, right?”

I didn’t know that. Not until he said it. But then again, I’m not really sure what a mother’s love is supposed to feel like. Still, I find myself smiling up at him with yet another lump in my throat.

“You’re so cute.” He the mess of hair on my head. Then he spins on his heels and continues to search through boxes while I stand there, wondering if I’m worthy of his mother’s love.

“Here it is,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts. After grabbing the cardboard box from the top shelf and placing it carefully on top of a pile of shoes, he points to it. “Open it.”

I bite down on my lip as I lift the flaps, one after the other, treating it like treasure.

Albums.

Photo albums.

A whole pile of them.

All dated.

“Maybe you can find more about her in those,” he says, his voice quiet.

I pick up the first one and flip the solid red cover with 1986 scrawled on the top. The first picture is of Grams with two other women. She would’ve been in her mid-thirties. They’re sitting on a bench, all in the same nurse’s uniform.

“I told her I’d convert them to digital and store them in the Cloud for her—in case there was ever a fire or something,” Josh says, and I look up at him. He shrugs, his eyes distant. “I guess I never got around to it.” After a beat, he clears his throat, his gaze moving to mine. “Maybe you can make a timeline of her life from all of them. Plus, we have the Internet, maybe we can find more there?”

* * *

Josh falls asleep on his stomach, his hand resting on my leg, while I sit up in his bed, surrounded by pictures of my grandmother captured in moments that make me question life.

39

—Joshua—

Four months later.

“It was hell,” Becca signs. “Remind me to never go shopping with Dad again.”

I smile at the sight of her through my computer screen.

She rolls her eyes, a trait that annoys me on most people but is hot on her. Crazy, I know, but it’s those damn eyes. “How much did he try to get off this time?” I ask.

“Half,” she signs, throwing in another eye roll. “I was so embarrassed.”

“He’s just trying to get a good deal. I still don’t know why you won’t just let me buy you a new camera. You’re a photography student, babe. How are you even managing classes right now?”

“I’m borrowing equipment, and that’s kind of the reason I called.”

“It is?” I ask, a grinning from ear to ear. “You’re going to let me buy it?”

“I have enough money saved for the body and a couple lenses, but…” She pouts into the screen. “I can pay you back in a couple weeks.”

I lean forward so I can reach the keyboard, and send her my Amazon account and password. “Just get whatever you need and save your money,” I tell her. “And don’t worry. I’ll find ways for you to pay me back.”

“You’re dirty,” she signs, her nose scrunched in disgust.

“No!” I shake my head quickly. “I don’t know where your mind went, but I was thinking more along the lines of giving me some of those pieces you’re selling on Instagram.”

“Oh,” she mouths, her gaze lowering.

“Filthy girl.”

Shrugging, she looks back up, her emerald eyes bright against the screen’s reflection. “I could do other things, too. I miss you… in that way. Touching you and making you—”

“Stop!” I almost shout. “Ry and Chris are in the room.”

She laughs, silent but there. “They can’t hear me, idiot!”

“Oh yeah.” I’d gotten so used to communicating via ASL that sometimes I forget others don’t hear or understand her. Still, I find myself leaning closer, using my arms to shield the screen, before saying, “Making me what?”

She licks her lips. God, I miss her lips.

“Wait. I have to ask you something else,” she signs.

“Okay. But first tell me what you were going to say,” I rush out. “Make me what?”

“Make you come, dickhead!” Ry shouts. “Touching you and making you come!”

Chris laughs.

Becca’s eyes widen. “How?” she mouths.

Ry gets up and into the shot, his hands moving faster than mine do. He speaks as he signs, “My best friend’s deaf. I’ve signed almost all my life. And by the way, your conversations are lame.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” I tell Ry, pushing him toward the door. He chuckles to himself as he gathers his shit from my room. A moment later, the door closes.

“Did you not know?” Becca signs, her eyes huge.

“Swear it, babe. I had no idea. What were you going to ask?”

She points down to her keyboard, and I nod, adjusting the program so I can see what she’s typing.

Remember the Fine House Award I got nominated for?

“Of course I remember.”

I made it to the finals.

A slow smile spreads across my face. “That’s awesome, baby. I’m so happy for you. You deserve it.”

Thank you.

“So what now? We wait to see if you’ve won?”

She bites down on her lip, preventing her grin from fully forming. I did win.

“Shut up!” I shout. “That’s amazing! I knew you would!” My words are rushed and loud and now Chris is behind me, looking at the screen, wondering what the hell is happening. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Becs. Holy shit!” I can see her laughing at my reaction, but I don’t care. I’m excited. Maybe too excited. But she deserves this so much and it’s about fucking time she had something good happen to her.

She types, So I guess there’s this fancy dinner coming up where they hand me an award and pass over one of those huge checks and I make a “speech” and I know it’s really late notice because it’s happening in two weeks, and this might possibly be the longest run-on sentence in the history of the world, but it would mean a lot to me if you were able to make it as my date. I just really want you there but I understand if you can’t because you have so much going on right now.

I sit higher. “What’s the date?”

It’s two Fridays from now.

Chris is already on his phone, no doubt checking his calendar and when his gaze lifts and his eyes meet mine, I know it’s not good.

“Can I call you back real quick?” I ask Becca. “I just need to go over some stuff with Chris.”

“Okay,” she signs. Then types, If you can’t make it, I understand. Honestly. I don’t want you to feel bad.

“I’ll call you back.”

As soon as my laptop’s shut, Chris says, “It’s the Teen Choice Awards. You’re presenting an award. You have to be there.”