“I bet he’ll be just fine,” I say wryly. “He usually is.”

“Like you in that way then, too,” she says, casting one last look Noah’s way before starting with me back toward the car. “You were so confident.”

That startles a snort out of me. “I was confident? Which kid were you raising, Mom?”

“You were small for your age, and not sure where you fit in,” she says, a defensive note on my behalf in her voice. “But you had a strong sense of yourself, though you may not have realized it at the time.”

“Kimba called it self-contained,” I tell her, sliding into the driver’s seat.

My mom shoots me a sharp look that I ignore while I adjust the mirrors. We drove Stanley’s Cadillac, a huge boat of a car. I can’t imagine why he keeps it, living in the heart of New York City.

“I know you said Kimba’s on TV sometimes,” Mom says carefully, “but I haven’t seen her. You know I avoid politics whenever possible. How is she?”

How is she?

So pretty it makes my heart hurt to think of everything I’ve missed. Every questionable fashion choice, bad haircut, and acne breakout through high school. All the contouring and shaping and discipline it took to form her into who she has become.

How is she?

Powerful. Vulnerable. Brilliant. Kind. Ruthless.

“She’s great.”

“Well, that’s nice,” Mom says, an unspoken “don’t ruin your life” woven into her statement.

The memory of Kimba panting and writhing under my hands on the trampoline rushes back in a wave. The sounds she made, the scent and wetness of her on my fingers, the texture of her skin—velvety and sugar-scrub sweet. The sensory recollection lands on my chest and heads immediately south. I shift because I’m in the car with my mother. This would only be more awkward if she could read my mind.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

I turn my head and meet her narrow-eyed stare. I’m convinced women are imbued with extra senses upon giving birth.

“Nothing,” I mutter, turning my attention back to the road ahead. “Why?”

“You had a pinched look.”

“I just dropped off my son at summer camp for the first time,” I say, trying to sound concerned even though I know Noah will end up holding the conch if things were to go all Lord of the Flies at Jewish camp. “Any parent would have reservations.”

“You just said yourself that he’ll be fine,” Mom says, shooting me an arch look. “Maybe you should spend less time worrying about Kimba and more time making things right with your girlfriend. Remember her? Noah’s mother?”

“Mom, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“What is it?” she asks, anxiety already weaving through her words. “Are you—”

“Nothing bad. It’s just… Aiko and I broke up.”