“Oh. I don’t know,” I said, pacing in front of him. “I guess I just didn’t think it was a big deal. We didn’t actually . . . God. How did Rocco find out anyway? Was it the wink at the end of the night? Did he find a hair on the couch or something?”

“Really? That’s what you’re worried about?”

“And I can’t believe he would comment on my Instagram! I asked you all not to follow or tag me there, because I didn’t want . . .” I cut myself off. “I guess I never asked Rocco specifically, but Jesus.”

Jahan looked at me like I was going mad.

“I thought they were open,” I mumbled.

“Amir. They broke up.”

My jaw fell. “What?”

“Giovanni called me,” Jahan said, rubbing his eyes. “He was frantic. He told me Rocco found out about the two of you, and then something else came up, and they both started yelling at each other and throwing things, and Rocco just broke up with him.”

I stared at a poster of the ruins of Pompeii, right above where Jahan was sitting. “This is all my fault,” I said.

Jahan looked at me and sighed. “You need to be more careful, Amir. You’ve gotten yourself in the middle of something you don’t understand.”

My head was processing the words Jahan was saying, but my heart seemed to have short-circuited.

I felt absolutely terrible. Like I had let Jahan down. He was tired, and serious, in a way I had never seen in him before—there wasn’t an ounce of his usual lightness.

Jahan picked up the algebra book and held it on his lap. “Cazzo. I really didn’t need this right now,” he said under his breath.

We were quiet for a second, until the sound of my phone buzzing broke the silence. Jahan raised his eyebrows.

“Who’s calling?” he asked.

“God, I hope it isn’t Rocco,” I said, reaching into my pocket. I looked at the caller ID on the screen—Roya Azadi; she was calling on Facebook Messenger—and shoved it back in.

“Anyway, I’m really sorry,” I said quickly, “for causing drama with your friends, right before your algebra exam, but I’m sure you’ll—” My phone buzzed again.

“Who keeps calling you?” Jahan said, getting up from his chair.

“No one, don’t worry.”

“Is it Rocco? Giovanni?”

I took my phone out to silence it. “No, it’s—”

Jahan grabbed my hand, twisted it, and looked at my screen. “Who is Roya Azadi?” he asked.

My heart started racing.

“It’s my mom.”

Jahan gasped. “Amir! You should answer it!”

“No, I shouldn’t.” I felt dizzy.

“I understand it’s an awkward time, but maybe your family is sorry,” Jahan said. “Maybe they want to apologize.”

“Jahan, trust me,” I insisted. “It’s not important right now.”

“Oh, forget this other stuff,” Jahan said, swatting his hand. “This is family. It’s important. How can they just reject you like that? We’re Iranian. Family comes first. Sure, our parents immigrated over with certain values, but they immigrated over for you to be happy, first and foremost. You need to talk to them. It could be . . .”