“Cooking is how I de-stress,” Claire says, dabbing at the corners of her mouth. Somehow, her bright red lipstick is still impeccable. “Between the firm, the hospital, the PTA…”

“We get it, Mom, you do a lot,” Blake says with food in his mouth. Greg glares at his son, who mumbles an apology under his breath.

While this whole interaction goes down, I sneak a look at my phone, where I see a series of texts from Isobel.

Your parents are wondering where you are.

I lied for you, by the way, but where are you?

Oh my God, you’re at her house again, aren’t you?

I stg if you’re dead, Dre, I’m going to kill her myself.

“So tell me, Andre,” Claire says. “How was your first jump?”

“Sorry?” I ask, putting my phone away.

She flourishes her hands excitedly. “It’s a rite of passage for a traveler. Everyone remembers theirs. It tells a lot about a person. I already told you mine.” She takes a sip of her wine and gestures to Greg, who jumps in without a second thought.

“Egypt, when Cleopatra became ruler,” Greg notes. “I was in the crowd. Completely scared shitless.”

“Greg!”

“Excuse my French.”

“And you?” I turn to Blake. “I know you can’t jump, but I’m sure you’ve thought about it, right?” I ask. Mostly, my hope is to get Blake to contribute to the conversation. To make up for my earlier faux pas and crack that hard shell.

It seems that asking that question was not the way to do it.

Blake slams his fork down on his plate, loudly enough for a sharp note to ripple through the air and direct everyone’s attention to him.

Claire glances over at her son, only moving her eyes, before looking at me.

“I want to make one thing clear,” Blake says slowly. “Just because I can’t jump, that doesn’t make me less than anyone at this table, all right?”

“No one was saying that, dear,” Claire chimes in. “Yes, you being unable to jump is—”

“If you say it’s a goddamned travesty, Mom, I swear to fucking God.”

“Hey,” Greg booms. “Don’t talk to your mother that way, especially at the dinner table, especially in front of a guest.”

Blake shuts his mouth, but I can’t tell if it’s out of respect or self-preservation. He chews quickly, stabbing his food with the utmost deliberation.

Finally, I break the silence. “It was good,” I say, clearing my throat. “You asked about my first jump? I went back to the sixties. End of the sixties, actually.”

“Oh, that’s a good time,” she says, her face beaming with approval. I can’t help but wonder what her reaction would have been if I’d said, like, the Ice Age. A frown?