While I’m thinking it over, a message pops up. For a second I panic that I’d written something without even realizing it, but no, this message from Jasmine is completely unprompted.

Jasmine: Hey, I know this is really random, but if you’re up for it, I could use a friend when I go see my mom this weekend.

A follow-up: no pressure, followed by a nonsensical string of emojis.

The rush of certainty that yes, I do want to go with Jasmine to see her mom, hits like frappuccino-induced brain freeze. Sure, sounds fun, I write back.

Jasmine: Just a warning

Jasmine: She’s very into Shabbat dinner.

Jasmine: Hope you like lentil soup and tamarind in everything.

Lara: I have no idea what tamarind is, but if it’s anything like crawfish, I can handle it. I tack on a strong-arm emoji.

She sends back a laugh-cry one. It’s not. But you can handle it.

I probably can handle tamarind, but meeting Sylvia Halabi is … a lot. In the very best way.

“Come in, come in,” she ushers us, her voice as low and melodious as Jasmine’s imitation of it. She gives Jasmine a big, dramatic kiss on each cheek, turns and does the same to me. “It’s so nice to meet the famous Larissa!”

Famous, huh? The idea that Jasmine’s mentioned me to her mom—more than once—makes me a little light-headed, even though obviously she had to in order to bring me. But maybe that feeling is from the Chanel that envelops Ms. Halabi like a summer breeze, softened only by my face being mashed into her silk blouse too tightly to smell much. “It’s nice to meet the famous Jasmine’s Mom,” I manage, and she laughs, deep and throaty like her daughter.

“Such a pretty girl,” she says affectionately, tugging one of my curls.

She’s one to talk. Jasmine’s mom is stunning, with the same thick, glossy black hair and liquid gold eyes as her daughter, which are even more striking against her deeper bronze skin. She’s meticulously made up, and I worry we’ve interrupted her on her way out to something.

“No,” Jasmine says, reading my mind. “She looks like that all the time.” Sylvia looks puzzled, and Jasmine says, “She’s not used to someone wearing a full face of makeup to have dinner with her daughter.”

Embarrassed, I mumble, “You look great,” and she laughs. She’s much easier to make laugh than her daughter, but it’s still hard not to be anxious against the backdrop of her neat, expensive perfection. The house is all marble and gold and glass, stunning and lavish in a very different way from Declan’s. I could see how they’d been confused into thinking they were a match before realizing they were actually polar opposites.