Pop gestures grandly to the huge bowl of salad. “Knock yourself out. There’s also bread.”

“I don’t eat bread.”

Abby is similarly dubious. She crosses her arms. Her idea of fine cuisine is cucumber slices and chicken nuggets. “This looks yucky.”

“It’s basically steak, honey,” Pop says. “You like steak. And you like potatoes, and you like corn, and you like peas.”

“I don’t like salad,” Abby points out.

“You don’t have to eat the salad,” Pop says with a slight edge to his voice. “Come on, everyone. Eat up.”

“But shouldn’t we wait for Mom?” I ask. “It’s family night.”

“It’s getting cold.” Pop grabs Abby’s plate and scoops a big dollop of potatoes onto it. Next comes the meat and gravy stuff. I’m about to warn him to ladle it next to—as opposed to on top of—Abby’s potatoes. Abby doesn’t like her foods to touch. But it’s too late; he pours it right over the top.

Abby’s bottom lip starts to tremble. “I don’t think I like it.”

Pop doesn’t give up. “This is a meal from our ancestors, Abby-cakes. This food is in your blood.”

In the meantime I’ve dished myself up a generous portion. This food isn’t in my blood like it is Abby’s, being that Pop is my stepfather and not biologically related to Afton and me, but he’s been around since I was seven. He feels like my real father in every way that counts. I don’t even remember much of the time before Pop came along, when I had a different father, the one Afton and I have an awkward visit with about twice a year.

“It’s in my blood?” Abby cries in horror. “What does that even mean?”

I wish I had such an interesting combination of ethnicities in my blood, but Mom took a DNA test, too, to discover that she is 90 percent European. Mostly German. Which explains the blond hair, I guess.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I sneak it out—Pop disapproves of phone use at the dinner table—and check my texts. There’s a new one from Leo, a photo of his long legs stretched out in front of him on his couch, sneakers on the coffee table, behind them the television paused on one of the shows we always watch together.

I wish you could have stayed, it says.

My chest tightens. It seems so silly now. Cringey. Cowardly. It’s just sex, isn’t it? Does it have to be such a big deal?

I glance up at Pop. He’s busy trying to calm Abby, who’s working herself into a full-blown tantrum over the food.

Me too, I text Leo quickly.