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“Yes,” he says finally.

That throws me more than if he had snapped.

“I’ll look around,” I say.

“Of course.”

Paul steps aside.

Becca pulls me toward the memorial table.

Renny is everywhere, and every version of him looks like he knows something funnier than everyone else. In the center is the photo with the ocean behind him. Sun on his face. Familiar jawline. Paul beside him, younger and laughing, one hand wrapped around a glass, the other resting on the low wall of a terrace.

Renny’s hand is on the back of Paul’s neck. A private touch that happened to get caught.

I stare at it too long.

A woman beside us, maybe sixty, wearing sunglasses the color of butter leans in and taps the frame with one polished nail.

“That was Casa Sirena,” she says.

I look at her.

“Puerto Vallarta,” she adds, as if that might ring a bell. “Renny loved that house.”

Casa Sirena. Property with its own name.

Becca picks up a tiny plate from the food table and studies something on a cracker. “Do you think this is cheese or fish?”

“Those are very different things.”

“I’m not assuming.”

I take the plate from her and smell it.

“Cheese.”

“You’re sure?”

“No.”

She eats it anyway.

The pool is louder now. Someone has gotten into the water in his shirt and shorts and a large straw hat, which seems like the choice of a man who has never had to worry about a clothes budget. One of the young guys on a float stretches back, arm over his head, stomach tight and shining with sunscreen.

My stomach twists.

Becca’s hand finds my elbow. “Hey.”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep telling that lie and it’s going to get annoying.”

“I learned from you.”

She rolls her eyes, but her hand stays.

Then Paul appears beside us again, because one awkward encounter just wasn’t enough.