I keep my back turned as I lay out cups. I can hear my mother carrying on the conversation about the shelter, but Jake sounds only half interested. His replies are polite, yet he’s not conversing. I glance back and catch him looking at me every few seconds. He’s trying to read me and gauge what’s going on in my head. I look away and close my eyes.  

This is fucked-up part of me that he doesn’t see as much in New York—old Emma rules here in Chicago. Her moods are all over ...