I glance back at Amina when she doesn’t answer, and her face is turned up in worry, looking straight ahead. It’s the kind of expression she gets during tests in pre-calc, or when graded papers are getting passed out. Forward, eyes intense, mouth a straight line.

“Hey.” I nudge her, and she shakes her head quickly, looking back to me, a soft smile back on her face. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere,” she mutters. “Nowhere, I just . . .” She stops and exhales. “You told them I’m coming, right?”

“What?” I scoff. “Of course. Right after we visit your place. Pretty sure my mom would flip out if I brought surprise company; she takes Thanksgiving very seriously.”

Me and Amina had only been dating since September, just these past three months after a summer of flirting through Facebook Messenger and Instagram DMs. But I feel like I’ve known her forever. We’ve been in classes together since freshman year at Central. So, maybe not forever, but three years, most definitely.

“You know I can’t wait for you to meet everyone,” I continue, my heart feeling full. “I talk about you, like, all the time.”

“It’s just . . .” She puts her fork down and sets her salad aside. “Look, Mike, I don’t want to make this weird, but . . .”

“What is it?”

“It’s just, have you ever brought home . . . someone . . . like me?”

I shift around on the bench and look at her, and she stares down into her lap, which is significantly less gravy-stained than mine. She’s wearing tight black jeans and some kick-ass vintage boots that come up halfway between her knee and her foot. I reach out and take one of her hands, an array of bracelets jingling as I bring it closer to me, thick silver rings on several of her fingers.

“What do you mean, someone like you?” I ask, running my fingers over the top of her hand. She pulls her hand away slowly and sighs.

“Michael, you know what I mean,” she says, shaking her head. “Look, I know your exes. Okay? Becca? Anne? And your parents, your family and all . . . they’re sweet from everything you’ve told me, but you know, they’re—”

“White,” I say, nodding slowly at first and then a bit faster. “They’re white. This again? That’s what this is about?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just—”

“I’m not white,” I say. “They don’t have any problems with me at Thanksgiving. Or Easter. Or Christmas!”

“Come on, that’s not even remotely what I’m saying here, and you know that.” She shifts around on the bench to look at me, and I realize we’re not really sitting next to each other anymore, but across from each other.

“It’s just . . . this feels silly,” I mutter. “We keep circling back to this. Why?”