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dropping in compliments here and there. It doesn’t exactly bother me, but it is interesting to watch my brother act this way over a girl—I guess I just never thought of him like this. Sophia and I seem to have somehow instantly bonded over our shared lost parents. She tells jokes and funny stories about her father and we laugh as though we’re old friends; it makes me feel grounded, as if in this moment, Ansel isn’t my only rock, isn’t the only thing keeping me from vanishing. Sophia has a plate of sandwiches ready for dinner when Ansel trudges inside, long after the sun has dropped into the horizon.
    “I have to admit, I’m impressed,” Sophia says with a grin as she pours him water from an amber pitcher. She hands him the glass and rustles through a flour jar before emerging with a ragged hundred-dollar bill.
    “That enough?” she says, passing the money to me. I fumble to accept it mid–sandwich bite.
    “Sure, of course,” Ansel says quickly. “I don’t suppose you’d give us a ride out to our car, by the way? It’s still on the interstate. I think this is enough to get us towed.”
    “Um…” Sophia sways a little, lets her dress twirl around her knees. “I was wondering if you guys would mind staying here tonight? I just realized I’ve got a few other things you could do tomorrow, if you don’t mind…”
    “Stay here?” I ask, surprised, but the pink tint around Ansel’s ears doesn’t escape me.
    “No, no, we couldn’t,” Ansel says quickly.
    “It’s no big deal, I swear,” Sophia insists. “Besides, the hotel in Live Oak closed a million years ago. Unless you want to camp out in your car, you’ll have to practically make it all the way to the beach before you get to one that’s open.”
    Ansel looks at a loss for words, floundering in the lack of a plan for us.
    “Come on. I’ve got a spare bedroom and a couch,” Sophia tempts us. “Please? I never have company. It’ll be fun.” Her voice seems almost desperate, and I feel a wave of pity for her. I don’t have friends, not really—who am I to turn down someone who wants to be mine?
    You’re starting over, remember?
    “I don’t—” Ansel begins.
    “Come on, Ansel, you’re starting to offend me,” Sophia says, folding her arms, but I catch the glimmer of a smile on the corners of her mouth.
    “Sorry,” Ansel says quickly. “Sorry. It’s just always been me and Gretchen and I don’t…” He stops. I know what he means, and to my surprise, Sophia seems to know as well: Close your circle long enough, and you forget how to open it back up again.
    “Okay. For tonight,” he says, giving in. He sends Sophia an appreciative look and plucks a peanut butter and jelly sandwich off the plate.
    An hour or so later Sophia leads us through the storefront to a thin stairwell that creaks loudly as we make our way up. There are pictures on the walls: the chocolate shop in what looks like the twenties, then the fifties or so, the eighties maybe, and the most recent one. In each picture there’s a person standing out front—Sophia is in the final shot, so I presume it’s her father and grandmother in the ones preceding. Our family has nothing like this, and I find myself wondering what it’s like to be locked into a life, a profession, a place, even. It can’t be the worst thing in the world—I mean, how bad could working in a candy store be?
    Upstairs has the feel of an attic transformed into a living space—sloped ceilings and oddly placed beams. That said, it’s no less charming than the house below. The main room has a couch and a rocking chair with a crocheted afghan thrown over the arm, and there’s a tiny bathroom with white and black checked tile.
    “So, bathroom is there—there are towels in the little closet behind the bathroom door. And Ansel, I assume you want to let your sister have the bedroom?”
    “Of course,” Ansel says without a second thought.
    Sophia smiles and motions for me to follow her down