You’re missing out on this. He texts me another photo of himself on the couch, his lip stuck out in a playful pout. Also he’s not wearing a shirt.

He sends me photos like that a lot—Hot Leo—always a few minutes before he posts them to his social media. I’m flattered that he wants me to see them first.

I text back a sad emoji, followed by, Sorry about before.

Don’t worry about it. You’re ready when you’re ready.

Relief fills me. He isn’t mad. I can still salvage this. It’s only Friday, after all. Our family is leaving for our trip on Sunday, but that still leaves all of Saturday and Saturday night.

Maybe I could be ready tomorrow. I hold my breath as I type the words. It feels bold, but I can be bold, I tell myself sternly. Remember how I was the one to approach Leo in the first place? I can take charge of my sexual destiny.

It takes him an agonizing few seconds to respond. I have a swim meet tomorrow afternoon and dinner with some friends after.

I’m about to type something else but then Pop bellows, “Enough!” and I thrust my phone under my seat cushion.

It isn’t like Pop to yell.

“What about a corn dog?” he says more quietly, trying to get back into his loving-parent mode, love and logic and all that, but his voice comes out tight and strangled.

I look quickly around the table. Pop is standing next to Abby, jaw clenched. He turns and walks stiffly toward the refrigerator to fetch Abby a corn dog out of the freezer that he can microwave. Abby’s gnawing on a hunk of bread. Afton is meticulously picking at her salad. She meets my eyes and raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows as if to say, What an awesome family night we’re having.

That’s when my phone rings. Loudly.

Pop swivels. “No phones at the table! Ada! You know that!”

“Yeah, Ada,” Abby says. “You know that.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” I hold up the phone like it’s a grenade about to go off, mashing at buttons to make it be quiet, and then I realize who’s calling me. “Wait. It’s Mom.”

Everything goes silent except for the ringing phone. Then Pop says, “Well, answer it.”

So I do. “Mom?”

“Hi, Ada. This is Ruthie, actually.”