We put our name down at the hostess desk. It was still relatively early; we wouldn’t have to wait too long for a table. We sat down at the bar and ordered drinks: me prosecco, Anna a beer. “You seem nervous,” she said.

“I am,” I said.

“I wouldn’t be upset if you wanted me to leave,” she said. “I would understand.”

I considered taking her up on it, but I knew it would make me feel terrible. I touched her arm gently. “Of course not.”

We didn’t speak much, and soon the hostess called out Anna’s name. “Are you all here?” she asked.

“Almost,” I said. “The third person’s a few blocks away.”

She led us to our table. I sat down, giving Anna the booth side. My eyes glazed over the menu without processing anything. Moments later, I could feel my mother’s presence as she entered the restaurant. “Hello!” I heard her call out to no one in particular, in her thick Arabic accent, which hadn’t subsided in the twenty-seven years she’d been in the States. As she made her way toward me, I watched her reflection in the mirror above the booth: her almond-shaped eyes flanked by Palestine-reputed cheekbones, her thick brown hair reaching the small of her back and framing her face. We caught eyes in the mirror just as she approached. We greeted each other with a kiss on each cheek. Anna stood up to introduce herself, but my mother preempted her. “Hi, I’m Laila Abu Sa’ab,” she said in one breath. I had already told her that Andrew couldn’t make it, and that Anna would be joining us instead. “Why can’t he?” she’d asked over the phone, suspicious that something was off.

“Another business trip,” I’d said, then quickly changed the subject.

“So, ladies!” she draped her coat over the back of the chair beside me before scooting into the booth. “What shall we order?” She assumed we would want to share, which Anna and I usually didn’t. Part of eating-disorder recovery meant controlling your portions, which was easier to do with individual meals. “I’m open to anything!” Anna said, trying to be flexible. We chose two salads and two pizzas—arugula and beet, margherita and prosciutto. Until the food arrived, my mother talked about her work. Anna pretended like it was all new to her. Our waitress brought everything all out at once, overwhelming the table. We piled salad onto our plates while the pizza cooled. As we were taking our first bites, my mother mentioned a friend whose daughter was getting married. I felt a burn of jealousy. Anytime I heard of another Arab girl’s engagement, it immediately snapped me out of my gayness. “How’d she meet him?” I asked.