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“She’s been painting,” Dad confirms. “Honey, you’ve got a little red on your cheek.”

Mom tries to wipe it away with the back of her hand, but it’s already dried. “Is it off?”

“No,” I say with a laugh. “You need a mirror and a scraper.”

“Oh, you.” She swats the air playfully. “So . . . when are you bringing Rhett over for dinner?”

“Mooom.” I sound like a teenager again, minus the eye roll. “Are you going to pester me about him?”

“Of course,” she says with a grin. “I thought that’s why you phoned—to tell us all about Rhett.”

“I called to see how y’all are doing.”

My mom gasps. “Is that the bunnicorn beside you?”

“Yep.” I pull Flame onto my lap. “This is Flame.”

“Finally, a grandchild,” she jokes.

Dad tsks. “Don’t mind your mother. You can tell she’s got grandbaby fever.”

“So it seems.”

“What?” she argues. “Can I help if I want grandkids before I die?”

“Stop it. You’re not old.”

She tips her head left and right, considering. “I’m not young, either.”

“Now, hon, we’re not going to pester Cristina about grandkids.”

My mom fusses with Dad for a moment, and while they do, my gaze wanders to the nightstand, where my Bitty Being sits.

Something’s not right about it. I scoot closer and pick it up, turning the miniature me left and right.

My breath catches.

Oh my God.

The clay sculpture slips, and I scramble to keep my grip on it. My heart thunders in my chest as I release a slow exhale.

The crack that’s run right down the center of the sculpture’s face for I don’t know how many years . . . is gone.

Gone.

Like it was never broken in the first place.

“Honey?” Mom’s voice fills the background. “Cristina, are you there?”

I blink, turn back to my phone. “Yes? Sorry. I got distracted.”

“Probably because of that man,” Mom says.

I laugh. “Not everything is about Rhett.”

“You two look good together.”

“I might as well get off this call,” Dad says, “if all you’re going to do, Cheryl, is talk about her new man.”