Michael’s office door is open, and he’s sitting chewing his nails while studying a large book that takes up half of his desk. The office is small with a lot of serious-looking bookshelves. Against the wall, there’s a sofa in an alarming shade of chartreuse, and next to it is a table with an assortment of oddities including an old record player, a silver menorah, and a shofar.

Is Michael Jewish? Instinct has me checking the doorframe, and there is indeed a mezuzah nailed there, much like the ones my father hung on all the doorposts of our old apartment.

“Oh, Ada, hi,” Michael says, looking up from his book. “Thanks for coming.” He smiles warmly and gestures for me to take the seat across from him.

I sit and resist the urge to adjust my clothes or hair.

“Are you settling in okay?” he asks. I can’t help but notice how detached and professional he appears behind his desk.

Yet I can’t forget the warm press of his thigh, the way his breath caught when our fingers intertwined, the certainty of knowing I was going to learn the texture of his lips.

Well, this is awkward.

I clear my throat. “Um, yeah, pretty well. Georgie’s really nice, and my room is great.” I promised myself that I’ll try to keep it clean. I have been promising myself I’d clean my room for the past decade. Maybe a blank slate will finally help.

His face breaks into a grin, dimples and all. “I knew you’d like it here. I’m hoping that when the time comes, you’ll choose to stay.”

How am I supposed to respond to that? I certainly can’t tell the truth about my intentions. Instead, I change the subject.

“Are there many Jewish Makers?” I ask, glancing back at the menorah and shofar.

He shakes his head. “Jews are only about zero-point-two percent of the world’s population, and that proportion is about the same among the Makers.”

“My father’s Jewish,” I say. I phrase it that way because I don’t know what I consider myself, but I want Michael to know that we share this part of our identity. That despite the very different worlds we come from, we may have learned some of the same prayers and the same traditions.

And it does mean something to him; I see it in the sharpening of his expression, the brightening in his eyes. It reignites a spark of the tension between us. Or maybe that’s just in my head.

I look away and say, “I kind of always associated the Renaissance with Christianity. White European Christianity.” And the diversity I’ve seen at Genesis so far doesn’t fit that image. The students and staff have been an array of ethnicities as varied as what I’m used to in New York City.