Parallel

But it means a lot to my mom that he comes every year, so I’m glad that he does. But he treats Martin like crap.”
    “Why?” Josh idolizes his stepfather. What would make his brother feel so differently? When Josh doesn’t answer right away, I quickly backpedal. “I’m sorry, I’m being nosy.”
    “Don’t be silly,” he says. “You’re my girlfriend. You’re allowed to be nosy.” He hesitates before continuing. “It’s complicated,” he says eventually, “but the gist is, Michael thinks my mom and Martin were having an affair before my dad died. My mom says they didn’t, and I believe her. Michael claims to have forgiven my mom, but he still hates Martin. He refused to come to their wedding.”
    “Wow.” I was expecting a story about a missed curfew or a wrecked car, not something this heavy. “Poor Martin.”
    “Yeah. It’s even worse because he loved my dad so much. They were best friends,” he explains. “College roommates. Martin never would’ve done something like that to Dad. But he can’t even defend himself, because he doesn’t know what Michael thinks.”
    “Michael’s never confronted him about it?”
    “My mom won’t let him,” Josh replies. “When Michael came to my mom with his theory about the affair, my mom told him that if he ever said anything to Martin, she’d stop paying his Yale tuition. She also made him promise to come home for Thanksgiving every year.” He pauses, then says, “Wow, it sounds a lot worse when you say it out loud.”
    “Where’d the theory come from?” I ask. “If your mom and Martin weren’t having an affair, why did Michael think they were?”
    “According to my mom, he misunderstood something he overheard. She’s always been really vague about it.” His line beeps with another call. “Oh, hey, that’s her calling on the other line. Call you back?”
    “Of course,” I say, and we hang up.
    “Whatcha doin’ in there, sitting in the dark?” It’s my grandpa in the doorway, an unlit cigar between his lips.
    “Looking at the stars,” I tell him, and point at my ceiling. He looks from me to the stars and back again.
    “You know there are real stars outside,” he says. “A whole universe filled with ’em.”
    “I’ve heard that, yeah.” I smile in the dark.
    “C’mon,” he tells me, beckoning with his arm. “Take a walk with an old man.”
    My grandfather’s idea of a “walk” is going to the end of the driveway and back—eleven times—while he smokes a cigar. As we’re on our third pass, he pats the arm that’s linked with his and says, “I think it’s time I told you what happened the night you were born.”
    “The night I was born?”
    He puffs his cigar and nods. “Your dad called around eight o’clock that night to tell me your mother was in labor. We had strict instructions not to get into the car to drive down here until you’d officially arrived, so there was nothing to do but wait. It was a big deal for us, first grandchild and all. And since your parents had waited ten years to have you, we figured you might be all we’d get.”
    A wave of sadness washes over me. While my mom’s the youngest of six, my dad and I are both only children. From what my mom’s told me, my grandma struggled with infertility back before there were treatments for it. She lost six babies before having my dad. And my mom, she only ever wanted one. How lonely it must be, to be in your eighties and to be able to count your family members on one hand.
    “So, we waited,” my grandfather continues, pausing for a few more puffs. “Your grandmother was a mess of nervous energy, banging around in the kitchen, making all this noise, so I went outside. There wasn’t a moon that night, so the stars were especially bright—much brighter than they are tonight.” A perfect moon, I think, elated to tell Josh. Grandpa stops walking and tilts his head back. “And I stood there,” he says, “just like this, watching the sky and praying that the Lord would bring you here safely. And then . . . zzzoom! ” His hand zips through the night air for effect. “A star shot across the sky.”
    I smile, imagining it. Grandpa turns to look at me. “And that would’ve been something—a shooting star always is. But then there was another one. And one after that.” He looks back up at the sky. “They just kept coming,” he says. “Nine altogether.”
    “You’re making that up.”
    “I most certainly am not,” he replies,