I grunt in frustration, and look up at him, hoping he can see the plea in my eyes. “I know that I’ve asked a lot from you lately, especially with the whole Chaz thing—”

“Don’t do that, Josh. Don’t use her to guilt me—”

“I’m not,” I say, my hands up between us. “It’s just that I need to make this happen. For Becca. And for me. Chris,”—I grasp his shirt so he knows how serious I am—“It’s time…”

—Becca—

I stare at the picture of my grandmother, her head tilted back, her hands and forearms covered in white silk gloves, one of them holding the hand of a mystery man as they pause their dancing so the photograph can be taken. The year on the album had her at twenty-two in this picture. Around the same age as me. The dress she wore was black, high collar, flowy skirt, white buttons down the middle. It was simple and elegant and beautiful, just like her. I found the dress in a box in the back of the closet—it’s condition as perfect as it was in the picture.

Both the dress and the gloves look better on her than they do on me, but I don’t mind. The point isn’t to look good, it’s to remember that she’s with me, tonight and all the nights after.

“The speech is perfect,” Dad says, walking into my room with his brand new tux, the sleeves and pant leg a tad short, but it’s hard to find something for his stature that doesn’t come with a tailor-made price tag.

I take the piece of paper from him and fold it, placing it in my purse, along with the photograph of grams, before standing from my desk chair and going to him. “You look so handsome,” I sign. I pat down the collar of his jacket. “Thank you for leaving work early and coming tonight. It means so much.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he says, his voice soft and sweet, a complete contrast to his usual tone. “Besides, I missed all your special nights. All those dances and proms… so I’m going to make you dance with me. I hope you know that.”

“A: I didn’t go to any dances and proms and B: I don’t think there’ll be any dancing tonight.”

He scoffs. “Just because there’s no dance floor or music, doesn’t mean we can’t dance, Becca.”

My eyes snap to his, my heart skipping a beat. He’s definitely my grandmother’s son.

“Did I say something?” he asks.

I shake my head. “You just reminded me of Grams, that’s all.”

Before he gets a chance to respond, there’s a knock on the door that causes my panic to spike.

“That must be Prince Charming,” Dad says, cracking his knuckles. “Time for a beat down.”

I narrow my eyes at him and sign, “Stop. He’s still so afraid of you.”

“Me? Why?” he asks, looking down at me with his nose in the air. “I’m harmless.”

I roll my eyes and pat down my dress. “How do I look?” I sign.

He turns serious. “You look beautiful, Becca. He’s lucky to have you.”

* * *

Josh stares at me.

I stare at him.

He blows out a breath.

I inhale one.

“You…” he says, and stares some more.

“What?” I mouth.

“…do insane things to my heart, Becca Owens.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I sign.

He runs his hand through his hair, still in the middle of the awkward grow out stage from when he shaved it. “I tried. Not that it matters. No one will be looking at me when you’re on my arm.” He reaches into his pocket. “I got you something.”

“Why? You didn’t have to!”

“It’s nothing really. Actually, it’s stupid cheesy” he says, revealing a dark green velvet bag. He empties the content into his palm and then hands it to me. It’s a ring, similar to the one he gave me on my eighteenth birthday, only this one reads: I shoot like an award winner.

I kiss him a little too passionately considering my dad’s now standing behind me, but I don’t care. I love my stupid cheesy ring and I love him. It’s been four whole months, and I miss him.

With a chuckle, Josh breaks the kiss and nods over my shoulder at Dad. “You guys ready to go?” he asks, pointing to the limo waiting at the curb.

Dad rubs his hands together. “I’ve never been in a limo,” he says, marching down the steps. “Is there champagne?”

* * *

The event is held at a fancy hotel in the fancy part of downtown and the room is filled with fancy people who speak fancy words while consuming a fancy dinner. I’d ask Josh if he could purchase Sandra a ticket to the event, along with dad’s, knowing they weren’t able to afford them, because like I said, the event is fancy. I needed Sandra here so she could relay my speech. Sure, I could’ve written it in a way that Dad or Josh could translate for me, but I knew how much it meant to them to see me up on that stage and to celebrate my achievement together.

There’s a slideshow of the award winners’ work displayed on a huge projector screen up on the stage. There are only five awards, and that means only five images, and Josh and Dad make a show of applauding every single time Grams shows up on the screen.

Every.

Single.

Time.

It becomes a game to them, something the people sharing our table seem to find amusing. “That’s my girlfriend’s,” Josh says to anyone who will listen. “That’s my daughter’s,” Dad says, doing the same. And so the game continues and the night goes on and I watch in awe at the two men in my life who seem to have found a common ground. There’s no longer detest in my father’s eyes when he looks at Josh, and no longer fear in Josh’s when he looks at my dad. Now, there’s just an underlying respect and the knowledge that at the end of the day, they both want the same thing. They want to take care of me. They want to save me. And after everything that’s happened, I realize that it’s not so bad to let them do those things. As Dad once told me: It may be hard to ask for help, but that doesn’t mean I can’t accept it when it’s offered. Then he made a speech about bruised apples that made absolutely no sense.

Soon enough, the meals are over and silence descends as the president of Fine House takes the stage. I’d been given a program of the night, so I know that my award will be given last. I don’t know what I’d prefer. I sit through the speeches, one after the other, my knee bouncing and my palms sweating.

“You got this, babe,” Josh says, his hand on my knee under the table.

“I’m nervous,” I sign. “How do you do this all the time? Comps and media and photo-shoots.”

He chuckles. “You don’t want to know what I do.”

“I do!” I sign, nodding frantically. “Tell me.”

He leans in close, his lips skimming my ear. “I picture you naked.”

I rear back. “That helps?”

“No,” he says seriously. “I just like doing it. A lot.”

“Becca Owens!” the speaker on stage announces.

My eyes go huge.

Josh stands, his applause as loud as my dad’s. “Get it, baby,” Josh says.

Swear, I’ve never been so self-aware of the way I walk until this very moment. Every step is like walking in quick sand, and if Sandra wasn’t next to me, encouraging me to move forward, then I’d have run back into Josh’s arms. He wouldn’t let me, though. He’d probably throw me over his shoulder and make me stand on that stage while Dad cheered him on.