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“Of course it’s not, dear,” she said. Her voice was mild but hard underneath. Seth’s edge wouldn’t be able to cut it no matter how sharp it got. “I’m always around to talk whenever you want. In fact, we should talk more often. I’d love it if you called me more.”

Seth sighed and grabbed my bag, hoisting it over his shoulder. The equivalent of a dog rolling over and showing its belly to the dog with bigger, scarier fangs. “Come on, Abby. I’ll show you to my—our—room.”

The hallway branched off the living room on the far end of the kitchen. I peeked into a small, lavender-scented bathroom before Seth opened the door across from it. “Here’s my old room slash the guest room slash the office.”

I stepped inside. Whatever the slashes, it was clear they hadn’t changed much about this room since Seth moved out aside from maybe shoving a desk under the window and adding some decorative pillows to the head of the bed. Otherwise, it was all baseball bedding and navy blue walls covered with sports posters and framed pages from comic books. The room’s bookshelf teemed with middle grade and young adult sci-fi and fantasy novels, thick paperbacks with creased spines.

Seth followed me in, closing the door behind me. He leaned in, like his parents would otherwise be able to overhear his whisper through the door and down the hallway. Though who knew? Maybe Bev had tiptoed after us and had her ear pressed against the wood. “Sorry about that. I can take the floor.”

Because, of course, there was only one bed. One full-size bed, tight for two people but not too tight. It would be perfect if I were a real girlfriend who wanted to cuddle and, you know, not a fake one who had no desire to cuddle through the night even when in a real relationship. I slept hot. Cuddling all night just made me sweaty. “Okay,” I said. “I guess. You don’t think that’ll be a problem, though? What if your mom pops in to wake us up and finds you on the floor? Won’t she think that’s weird?”

He didn’t even bother trying to tell me that his mom wouldn’t barge in on us while we were sleeping. “Probably,” he said. “But we could just tell her you kick a lot in your sleep or something?”

“Why am I the kicker?”

He shrugged. “Because it was never an issue with past girlfriends, so it would be weird if it suddenly came up now?”

But how would his mom know, considering he’d never shared a bed with one here? Whatever. It didn’t really matter. I was only here for eight nights and then I was out. “We can figure it out later. Can I have a few minutes to chill?”

“Of course. That’s why I got us out of the living room,” Seth said, but he didn’t move. I coughed, widening my eyes and moving them meaningfully toward the door. Now he moved, but farther into the room, which was not the intention. “Anything you wanted to talk about?”

I cleared my throat. “I, um.” Why did asking for a moment alone feel so awkward and weird? Maybe because Seth didn’t seem to be the kind of person who valued alone time. If anything, he seemed like the kind of person who did his best to never be alone ever. “No, I was thinking of maybe taking a nap. Like you said.”

“Oh, okay. Got it. Can’t blame you.” He moved toward the door, hands in his pockets. He glanced over his shoulder before leaving. “Anything you need to be comfortable? Do you want to take a shower or something? Not, like, with me. That’s not what I meant. I just meant, there are towels in the closet next to the bathroom and soap in the—”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t think you meant you wanted to take a shower with me,” I said dryly. He nodded, then opened the door to reveal Bev standing there, fist raised as if she were either about to knock or punch her son in the nose. I hastened to add, “Because that would be awkward in your parents’ house, obviously. Not because we haven’t done it before. Plenty of times.”

Nailed it. The pained expressions on both his and his mother’s face testified to that.

Hey, maybe by the end of this Hanukkah season, I would have so horrified his mother that she’d be kissing the feet of whatever non-Jewish girl Seth dated next.

“Sorry about that, Bev,” I said. “I didn’t realize you were there.”

The pained expression quickly resolved itself into a bright smile. “I just wanted to tell the two of you something I forgot.” She produced two long strips of paper and held them out to Seth, who took them. In contrast, the pained expression on his face settled in for the long haul. If he used my own headache ranking system, I’d say he was preparing for a Category 3. “I couldn’t help but get tickets for the Eighth Night Ball. They were fundraising for the HIAS, so it was for a good cause.”

“Tickets for you and Dad?” Seth’s voice barely strained with hope.

Bev rolled her eyes. “You know perfectly well that the Eighth Night Ball is far too fashionable for the likes of us. Also, it’s much too late at night. No, they’re for you and Abby.”

Though I’d never gone, I had vague memories of the Eighth Night Ball from when I lived around here, because it got written up in all the Jewish publications and friends’ older siblings and parents had posted their glamorous getups beneath twinkling white lights and garlands. The charity ball typically took place on the last night of Hanukkah; everybody got fully dolled up to see and be seen. I’d always kind of wanted to go.

“Mom, I don’t dance,” Seth argued.

But Seth clearly didn’t want to go, and I was here to be a good fake girlfriend, not don a Disney Princess gown and be swirled around beneath glittering crystal chandeliers to the elegant tunes of a string quartet. So I said, “I don’t have anything to wear.”

Bev started with Seth. “You do too dance. I’ve seen you.”

“At what? My bar mitzvah?”

“You had a very good sense of rhythm for a thirteen-year-old,” she said. Point apparently made, she turned to me. “And don’t you worry about that. I figured you wouldn’t bring any formal gowns with you. I’ll have it taken care of.”

“Oh, I can’t possibly.” Even renting a formal gown was expensive. I couldn’t afford it, and the idea of letting my fake boyfriend’s mother take care of it filled me with guilt.

“I insist. It would make me so happy.”

If you’ve never tried to argue with your stereotypical Jewish mother about something, let me set the scene for you. Picture trying to wrestle a greased golden retriever, all while it gazes at you with big, sad puppy dog eyes. Oh, and it’s also two sizes bigger than you. With large teeth. And opposable thumbs.

Point being: I’d already lost. “That’s so kind of you.”