“We didn’t really date. We hung out.”
“Hanging out is dating, Mom.”
“Most of the time we went out with friends.”
“Group dating.”
“I guess you could call it that,” she says reluctantly. “I didn’t see it that way.”
“Why not?”
“Because we were keeping it halal.” She eyes me. “You know, Maya, intimacy is for after marriage.”
“TMI!” I fling my hands up. “I was just asking what your favorite restaurant was.”
“I’m only saying,” she presses. “Kissing and all the rest—those are sacred moments between a husband and wife. And since we’re on the topic. It’s one thing to date just to date, and another to pursue a relationship because you’re seriously thinking of marriage.”
I’ve heard this refrain since middle school. I get what she’s saying, but . . .
“So, you have to want to marry the person in order to date?” I ask. “That’s a lot of pressure when you’re just getting to know the person.”
“It’s not that you have to marry them, but you should be thinking along those lines.” She hesitates. “And that’s why I’ve told you it’s not a good idea to get into a relationship with anyone until you’re in college. There’s too much going on in high school to add one more thing to your plate.”
“Isn’t there plenty on people’s plates in college too?”
She studies me for a second.
“Are you thinking about dating?”
“Me?” I stare at her.
She looks at me expectantly.
“How did this become about me? I was asking about your favorite restaurants to see if maybe you and Dad might want to have a talk at some point. Maybe go out for dinner—just to connect? You’ve been focusing and reflecting for weeks. A talk might be nice.”
Way to show all your cards, Maya. I sigh.
“Oh, honey,” she says. “We are talking.”
“I never see you talk.”
“We talk every week, during our therapy sessions.”
Therapy sessions?
“And we meet with Imam Jackson weekly too. I hate that our issues have to affect you like this. We both hate it. So much.”
They are talking.
All this time, they’ve been talking.
And my dad still bought a bed.
Settling down on the front steps to wait for Sara, I click on Instagram. The first picture in my feed is InstaGramm. Jamie’s in this photo. It’s the first time I’ve seen him on her feed. They’re taking a selfie in front of a Rossum yard sign. The caption reads: Behind every grandmother is a wonderful grandson. Meet the man behind the scenes—the Stories expert and filterer extraordinaire: Jamie. And look at those cheeks. Isn’t he cute?
I laugh. There’s no denying Jamie is cute, but he’s not toddler cute. The way his hair frames his forehead, his easy smile—you can’t deny the guy is objectively good-looking. And the way the green of Jamie’s eyes shifts depending on the day or the light or what he’s wearing . . . Yesterday, under the glow of the dim lights at Intermezzo, they looked touched with a hint of honey. I smile a little. Last night was perfect.
But all my good feelings vanish when I see the next photo.
It’s a selfie. Of Sara and Jenna. They’re holding mugs with rainbow straws. The caption reads: It’s official—rainbows do make everything better.
This isn’t a repost. This isn’t a throwback. The time stamp is yesterday. The geotag is Brookhaven. Three miles from my house.
Sara honks.
Numb, I get in the car.
“Hey, Maya.” She grins at me. “Intermezzo for some cake?”
“I went there yesterday,” I manage to say.
“Well, I’m kind of hungry for real food anyway. How about Mellow Mushroom? For old times’ sake?”
“Okay.”
She doesn’t stop talking all the way to the restaurant. About how complicated it is to organize the things she’s buying. How her mom wants to repurpose Sara’s bedroom once she’s gone so it can double as a sewing studio. Lucas trying to get out of every shift, using his arm as an excuse.
Old Sara would have noticed I haven’t said anything in response. Old Sara would know something was wrong. But this isn’t that Sara anymore.
Except for some men sitting at the bar watching ESPN pundits on television, the restaurant is empty. Sara gives the waitress our usual order of pizza with olives and a side of cheesy bread. This is a vintage Maya and Sara destination. We’ve been coming here since we were in fifth grade and our moms dropped us off for our Percy Jackson book club for two. But I don’t feel nostalgic right now. The numbness from the car ride is wearing off. Something else, harder, is taking its space. I exhale and try to calm down. Jamie thought I should talk to her. He said it would keep building if I didn’t. And that’s what’s happened, isn’t it? The longer we go without talking, the worse things keep getting. I need to stop this avalanche.
But before I can say anything, Sara does.
“I’m so glad we’re doing this.” She leans across the table with a huge smile. “I wanted to tell you the news in person. I heard back from Avid. Guess what? I got the job!”
My mouth goes dry like sandpaper.
“Can you believe it? The competition was fierce, but Ashley fought for me, so I’m in! It’s such a cute bookshop, and I’m so excited to only have one job!”
“When are you moving?”
“That’s the thing.” Her smile falls. “They need me ASAP. I’m going June twenty-eighth.”
“That’s . . . that’s Friday.”
“Can you believe it? I am scrambling. Thank God Jenna has summer session. My financial aid doesn’t kick in until the fall so I didn’t know what I was going to do if I couldn’t crash in our place until then.”
She’s telling me about how financial aid and living arrangements work. How she might be able to add on a summer class if the school lets her. But I can’t focus on any of it. I can’t process the fact that our first real hangout of the summer is now also our last one.
“I’m sorry.” She leans over and squeezes my hand. “This summer was intense. I wish we could’ve hung out more.”
But you found time to hang out with Jenna.
Everything I was going to say flies out the window. My brain is a complete blank. Sara looks at me expectantly. I need to say something that won’t end with me crying. I take a deep breath. Something neutral. Something safe.
“You’ll come back to vote, though, right?” I ask her.
“What?”
“Vote.” I clear my throat. “The special election is in less than two weeks. It’s always low turnout for local elections. Every vote is going to count.”
“Wow.” She pulls back. “That’s what you want to know? No congrats? No questions about my move? Thanks for being happy for me.”
“Why do you need me to be happy for you?” I spit out. “You have Jenna, don’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You were together.” My voice cracks. “Yesterday. I saw the picture.”