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“And it’ll be cool, of course. I know how many people would kill to have my job,” she said in a rush, almost like she was trying to convince herself. “But it’s going to mean a lot more hours, and I don’t know what that means for my own career. For my debut show.” She was quiet again. “William used to be an artist, too, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Leo said, which, to be fully honest, was a lie, because of course he’d googled Dr. William Bettany (there was only one of them, apparently, an honor he himself did not share, thanks to three other Leonard Davids; the other Leonard Davids were all over sixty, so Leo supposed that in thirty to forty years he’d probably be the only one, for what it was worth). Dr. William Bettany talked in interviews about how working on his own wire sculptures and showing in a few galleries had inspired him to work in museums. The wire sculptures had looked, Leo thought, like the tangled snarls his headphones turned into when he fell asleep wearing them, but he didn’t really get modern art.

“You wouldn’t know,” Shira said. “He doesn’t do it anymore. He doesn’t even talk about it. He doesn’t have time for art now. Too busy working with other people’s art.” A shadow crossed her face. “I just…I don’t know what to do. I like my job now. It’s fulfilling. It’s a really cool career track that I’ve worked toward for practically my whole life. I kind of don’t know who I am without it. But is it worth doing at the expense of everything else?”

He was quiet again, assuming the question was rhetorical, but then she turned and looked at him from beneath pinched eyebrows, as if she were waiting for his response. He hesitated. “I’m probably the least qualified person to tell anyone what they should do.”

“That’s exactly why you should be telling me what to do,” she said. “You knew me before this version of me. A different Shira than William knows or Danica knows or Ellery and Nora know. You’re not in deep in the art world, where we’re all trying to one-up and top and impress one another.”

That sounded miserable, honestly. “I don’t know,” he said. “To me it’s really simple. Do it until you aren’t happy anymore, then find something else. What about your own art? From what your mom’s been telling me, you’re going to be swimming in money.”

Shira snorted. The woman with the cart finally gave up and stalked away, cartless. “That’s really, really not how being an artist works. If the show gets good reviews and my paintings sell spectacularly well, I might get more shows, and I might make enough to live on. Maybe live on comfortably if I do some teaching on the side or freelance work. But no, the vast, vast, vast majority of artists do not get rich off their work. And I wouldn’t even dare to try it until I have a schedule full of shows at places people have heard of and pieces on back order.”

“You could try and find something that’s a little more low key to do full-time,” he suggested. “That way you’ll have time to work on your art but also enough money to breathe.”

She winced. “But I’ve spent all my life so far working toward this goal, and if I leave now, I’ll never be able to get back in. And also, what would people think?”

He could see the specific moment when it dawned on her what she’d said, what she’d meant. Her mouth twisted as if she’d bitten into something sour.

Leo wasn’t sure if he should say something or stay quiet, let her marinate in the realization. For a moment he watched her chew on the inside of her cheek, twist her fingers together as if she were trying to imitate one of her boyfriend’s sculptures. In the end he couldn’t resist. “Your whole life can’t be a performance for other people,” he said. “You have to live for yourself first.”

“I know,” she spit out. “I know that. Of course I know that. It’s just all my life, I’ve been hearing about my potential, and I can’t…I just…” She shook her head, slowly at first, then more vigorously, as if trying to physically shake the idea out of her brain. “What about you? How is everything besides your classes and your game? How’s your dad?”

He couldn’t help but flinch at the way she’d said it so casually, at the way she’d used it to get away from the subject she herself didn’t want to discuss. “He’s fine. Still at his same job. Still living in the same place. Still the same guy.” God, he was being so boring. “You know, nothing new.”

“Banana bread?”

He held out a hand automatically to take some, and crammed the chunk of cake she’d passed him into his mouth. He appreciated it not because it was especially good (it was a little dry, maybe because it was beginning to stale) but because it gave his mouth something to do other than respond to Shira.

Almost a year ago—not long after last December’s Hanukkah party—he’d gotten a call from his mom. “Isn’t it, like, the middle of the night in Italy right now?” he said in lieu of hello or ciao.

His mom let out an airy laugh. “This is how I live now, darling.”

That was new. So was the old-timey movie-star darling thing. But you know, honestly, good for her. She deserved to spend her nights on yachts and wear giant sunglasses that made her feel glamorous after a life of raising him, where she never woke up any later than seven and lived in athleisure. “Very fancy,” he said. Much fancier, much more interesting, much more fulfilling than his own life. Something struck him in the gut as he realized that. “What’s up?”

She gusted a heavy sigh into his ear, and he could almost see her: perched on the edge of a beach chair, deeply tanned beneath the light of the moon, a gauzy swimsuit cover-up blowing in the gentle Mediterranean breeze. “It’s been a long time since the divorce,” she said. “And the divorce was the most devastating thing that had ever happened to me, but if not for that, I wouldn’t be here where I am, very happy. I’d still be back in that same old rut.”

A pang at the thought that the life he was leading was literally in that same rut, one he tried to cover up with righteous indignation at the way she referred to Joe’s betrayal as “the divorce.” It wasn’t like they’d fallen out of love and mutually decided to consciously uncouple, he’d— No. She was allowed to define what happened to her however she wanted. And he was happy for her; he really was. She’d spent so long making him the center of her life, and she deserved to be the center of it now.

“I’m glad for you,” he said, voice measured. “But I still feel betrayed.”

She sighed into his ear again. Someone else murmured in the background—the boyfriend? Leo had only met him a few times; he was a retired finance guy, very boring, but it had been clear from the way his eyes lit up in her presence and how he constantly turned to face her like a moth to a flame how crazy he was about her. “Your dad called me for the first time in years. Asked for my help with…” She took a deep breath. “He did a horrible thing, but it was to me, not you. I officially forgive him and give you permission to let him back in.”

“I think that’s my decision to make,” said Leo, the anger simmering under his skin cooling just the tiniest bit.

“Of course it’s your decision. It’s your life,” she told him, which made it cool a little more. “You only get one, and so does your father. Even if you’re angry at him, you can let him in. Whatever else he did, he’s still your father. Who knows how many years any of us have left?”

Leo’s mom might not have been Jewish, but she’d clearly absorbed enough of it from him and Joe that she was pitch-perfect at guilting. It was his turn to sigh in her ear. “Would it make you happy?”

“It would make me happy,” she’d said.

How could he argue with that? While he and his dad had been living together for a couple months at the time, they were basically roommates who talked as little as they possibly could, and rarely ate together. So he’d gone to Joe and told him through a clenched jaw that he’d like to start having dinner together once or twice a week. Usually they made conversation about work or Leo’s classes or how much they hated the current president or whatever neighborhood gossip they’d picked up while walking the dog. The Fels husband seemed to have moved out; the teenage LaTessa daughter was obviously pregnant. Joe had actually made him laugh a few times, and Leo had to admit, it was freeing not to have to stonewall him every minute of every day. It was like Leo had put down a backpack full of rocks he hadn’t realized he’d been wearing.

He swallowed the banana bread in one solid lump. “You’d better not say I told you so.”

“I would never say I told you so,” Shira said, eyes dancing. He’d shared the latest on his and Joe’s relationship, and of course, she blurted, “Told you.” She clapped her hands over her mouth. “Whoops.” It came out muffled.

“Technically you didn’t say the I or the so, so does it really count?”