Even though Joey thought that was a bit of an exaggeration about the tightness of Bea’s schedule—she had a nanny come most days to care for two-year-old Lily—Bea did generally allocate a lot of time toward her art. Sometimes she was in a research phase, or the actual creation, and sometimes she was just sitting around staring at a canvas or a wall, seemingly not doing anything. But actually, that was Bea’s prime time for inspiration, she said, when ideas had space to attach. As an aspiring artist herself, Joey admired her mother’s passion and devotion. Bea wasn’t a wallflower stay-at-home mom like many of Joey’s friends’ mothers, and no one would ever say Bea Abrams didn’t have a point of view.

Bea held up two dresses—a long red one with a plunging back and a black mini that Joey had once borrowed to go clubbing with Leo at the resort town Benitses in the south. “Which one?”

“The red is nice.”

“It’s for the presentation I’m giving at the gallery on Sexuality in the Era of Impressionism. Thirteen people signed up.”

“Oh. Cool, Mom.” Joey waited for Bea to launch into some diatribe about how that paltry sign-up meant Corfu needed to get with the times. That even in the nineteenth century, Manet created some scandalous stuff. Then Bea would backtrack and say, but we should be careful about using the word scandalous because it carries negative connotations, and nudity is natural.

Instead, Bea said, “Where are you going?”

“With Leo, to Sidari.”

“Oh, it’s gorgeous there. You know, Joey, if you’re sleeping with Leo—”

“I’m not sleeping with Leo!”

But I want to be sleeping with Leo. I desperately want to be sleeping with Leo.

She’d had sex before, a grand total of once, throwaway sex in a friend’s basement with a guy who was sweet and sort of chubby. The next morning, she’d nearly gagged as the heat of his stale beer breath had tunneled against her neck. In the dark, lulled by angry hip-hop and floating in the pool at one A.M. in some random girl’s spare bikini, staring up at a starless sky, it had seemed the natural segue when arms wrapped around her waist, when she swiveled her head to see that guy on the football team who always seemed oafy. Or maybe she’d just slept with him to get it over with, to not look a fool when she returned for the summer and presented herself to Leo. Joey knew Leo was not a virgin.

Bea said, “Well, if you do sleep with Leo, it’s your prerogative.”

“Mom. For the last time, Leo and I aren’t together.” It worried Joey, how transparent her desire was and also how fragile—she was china teetering on a table’s edge.