“Yeah,” I mumble, glaring at Mom, who has to tell everyone about every bowel movement I have. She’s smiling into his face, and they’re holding hands; he’s rubbing his thumb over her knuckle, so they’re both eating with just one hand on their cutlery. I roll my eyes. “So, what’s your job?” I ask him.

“Oh, I’m a millwright.” He chuckles at my blank look, wipes his face with a napkin (when did we get napkins?), and says, “I fix machinery. When a farm or winery has a piece of equipment that breaks down, they call me.” At this, Mom literally squeezes his arm muscles.

I nod, chewing. He clears his throat and starts again on the school thing. “Your mom says you’re really good in school. That’s great. Haha, I wish I’d done better in school.” Then he points at himself. “Self-taught.”

Let me guess: he was a cool guy in school who spent too much time with a hacky sack and a bong. I’m itching all over to just leave.

“Can I be excused? I’m going out tonight and have some stuff for school to do first.”

Mom’s face hovers between anger and disappointment, and she chooses the easy route of surrender. “Oh, fine. Clear your plate and put it in the dishwasher.” I jump up and away, and she calls into the kitchen, “Rinse it first!”

I go to my room, actually planning on doing some homework, but my mind is buzzing. I guess I’m happy for my mom, but she’s acting like she’s in a romantic comedy, and I’m not used to having anyone in our house. Normally the guys she’s dating reveal themselves to be losers before she gets a chance to bring them home. She really does think this one is different, even if I don’t. I’m sure he’ll screw things up in no time at all—he’ll be married or jobless or cheat on her or something else. Take your pick from a game of Loser Bingo. Meanwhile, I can hear them now, murmuring to each other, Mom sighing happily. I don’t want to go back out there with them, playing house and family and using napkins and rinsing fucking plates. She obviously wants to be alone with Mr. Reg the Millwright and his machine-fixing hands. My room feels so small, like it’s shrinking into a tiny space shuttle cabin on a rocket that won’t launch. I sit at my desk, pull out my geography textbook, and stare at it. I check my phone, but it’s tight-lipped, looking the other way, pretending I’m not even there. Nothing.