I lean back and sigh. I knew she’d be able to tell something was wrong, but I didn’t think she’d zero in on a version of the truth so quickly.

She won’t let this go, so I tell her the most truthful thing I can bear to share: “You can’t break up with someone you aren’t dating.”

My mother purses her lips.

“What?” I ask, an edge to my voice like I’m fourteen years old and about to get busted for saying I made my bed when we both know I didn’t.

“You can lie to yourself, sweetheart, but you can’t lie to your mother. I saw the way you two looked at each other—and Officer Dan told me he caught you in flagrante on the beach.”

“Mo-o-om.”

She tsks playfully, but my parents have never treated sex like it’s something to be ashamed of. The only two things that concerned them were safety and consent, something I heard repeatedly growing up.

“Whatever you want to call it—hanging out, hooking up, friends with benefits—the label doesn’t change the feelings.”

“It’s complicated,” I say, even though I know she won’t let it rest at that.

“Then uncomplicate it. Do you have feelings for her?”

“Yes,” I admit. “But my feelings aren’t the problem.”

It’s my mom’s turn to sigh, a sound that says more than a thousand words. Before she can explain herself, our waitress arrives. I order the Masala Chai French Toast and a side of extra-crispy bacon.

I wonder what Josie would order—something more savory than sweet, maybe? And probably not bacon because of the whole Jewish thing. If it mattered to her, I would give it up, too. Out of solidarity and respect for her culture. I would give up anything for that woman.

My mom clears her throat, and I realize the waitress has come and gone.

“You know,” she says, “in some ways, I think all those romance books you’ve read have done you a great service. I imagine you’re a kind and considerate lover”—I dry heave at the thought of my mom thinking of me as any kind of lover—“but I also imagine it gave you an unrealistic idea of how fast and easy love is in the real world.”

I shake my head. “C’mon, Mom. It’s never fast or easy in the books. If it was, they’d be thirty pages, not three hundred.”

“You’re making my point—no real love story wraps up in three hundred pages. Real life doesn’t follow plot beats, and real love isn’t like your books.”

“Says the woman who married her high school sweetheart. If you wanted me to have a more pessimistic view of romance, you and Dad shouldn’t have been so happy for so many years.”