“No! They understand,” I say quietly. And they do. Mostly, they do. “And it’s not like they’ve never met you.” My father insisted on “giving the young man the once-over,” to my mortification, when Hunter picked me up for our first date in September of our junior year. My dad was friendly enough, even when he interrogated Hunter about where we were going and what time Hunter would have me back. Hunter was so nervous, so eager to pass muster . . . I remember thinking it was kind of adorable, despite my embarrassment at my dad’s 1950s behavior.

He also met my mom — at the studio theater play in April, when I played Petra in An Enemy of the People (during which, on the night they attended, there was a prop malfunction that ended with a belated dump of an entire crate of fake snow at once, to unfortunate comical effect in a tense and somber scene).

“Maybe if they knew me better, they’d trust me and feel better about the overnighter.” He sighs. “Also, I feel like I should ask your mom how she’s doing. What if she thinks I’m avoiding her because she’s sick? And I’ve never even met your little brother. Whatever you’re worried about, I promise, it would be fine.”

He has no business making such promises — he has no idea what he might be met with in my house.

“My mom isn’t feeling up for company right now,” I say, avoiding his eyes.

“Oh, gosh,” he says, wincing. “Okay. I’m sorry. I don’t know how long it takes to recover from . . .” He gestures. “Chemo and the surgery and stuff.”

I feel like a rat. My mom’s illness has been rough, but I know perfectly well she’d be happy for Hunter to come in and say hello. I’m the one who can’t handle it. It’s been a struggle to see her so thin and frail, let alone the still-jarring aspect of the double mastectomy. I couldn’t bear to see someone else’s reaction to what she looks like now. It would make it that much more real, and it’s real enough already.

And then there’s Jonah.

“I don’t mean to be pushy,” Hunter says. “I just feel like I should be doing something. You know?” He shrugs, and I can see how lost and confused he feels. Part of me feels compassion for him because he’s sincere and kind of vulnerable, but another part of me chafes that, by his own admission, he has motives.