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I love my best friends separately, but I really love them together, too.

* * *

Most of winter break is quiet, and that’s exactly what I want it to be. Neil and I spend plenty of time together, sometimes with Kirby and Mara, sometimes with his friends. We spot some of our high school classmates around town, trade stories about our first few months of college. We stand in the rain to get burgers at Dick’s—fries and a chocolate milkshake for me, one of my favorite Seattle meals. Afterward, when we’re eating in my car, Mara announces, “I got Dick’s sauce all over my arm,” as someone inevitably says while eating at Dick’s, and we can’t stop laughing for a solid five minutes.

And of course, there’s the time I spend with my parents, too, and some stilted Spanish with my mom. She speaks slower with me than she does when she talks to my grandparents, uses more basic words, but I don’t mind. Most of all, my parents are curious about Professor Everett’s class—her grading process, her methods, her teaching style—and whether they agree with it.

“That’s interesting,” my dad says when I tell them about the freewrites. “A little like journaling?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

They didn’t go to school for writing. My dad, who illustrates their picture and chapter books, studied art and my mom studied European history.

“We just want to make sure she isn’t leading you astray,” my mom says with a wink.

I can’t bear to tell them the whole truth: that I’m ashamed of the work I’ve turned in so far, despite the creativity buzzing through campus. Seems like everyone’s been bitten by that bug except for me, though I’ve been holding out hope that returning somewhere familiar will get the words flowing again.

Neil comes over to celebrate Hanukkah with us on the second night. My parents are always especially affectionate with each other around the holidays, and this one is no exception. At one point my dad notices a smudge of latke batter on my mom’s glasses, leans down to wipe it off with a damp cloth. She grins at him, giving him a quick peck when she thinks I’m not looking.

Their recipe for vegan latkes is one I dream about in the weeks leading up to Hanukkah, and I’ve been eager for Neil to try it. It feels so radically normal, spending a holiday with him. My parents are almost as obsessed with him as I am—or at least, I thought they were before my mom’s warning during move-in. It probably helps that he loves their books, and so does his sister, Natalie, though she didn’t grow up with them the way he did. The way we both did, technically.

But my mom hasn’t mentioned that fraught conversation during any of our phone calls, and tonight there’s only comfort and ease as my parents ask him how school’s going, how he likes New York. Maybe my mom truly heard what I said and changed her mind.

“We’re hoping our publisher brings us out there in the spring,” she’s saying, spooning applesauce onto a latke. “We’re just waiting to finalize a few more details for the tour.”

“I’ll be in the front row.”

“And make all the little kids sit behind you? Evil,” I say between bites of latke.

“None of those kids know what it was like to have to wait for each book to come out,” he says. “Now they can just go to the library and get them all at once.”

“Kids these days,” I deadpan.

“What’s the Jewish community at NYU like?” my mom asks.

“It’s great,” he says. “I’ve been to services a couple times and met a few other Jewish friends.”

My dad eyes the last latke on the plate, and while all of us encourage him to go for it, he splits it with his fork and gives half to my mom. “They must have something like that at Emerson.”

“I haven’t gone yet,” I admit. Back in high school, I’d never met an extracurricular I didn’t like. Student council, quiz bowl, yearbook. I guess I haven’t gotten involved in many activities at Emerson yet; I’ve been too preoccupied with my writing. “I’ve wanted to—it’s just been busy.”

“Completely understandable,” my mom says. “Your focus should be on your studies, anyway.”

The comment rubs me the wrong way, reminding me what she said about our relationship.

“She can do both,” my dad says. “College isn’t just about academics.”

Then a look appears on my mom’s face that I swear I’ve never seen before, an almost tenderness. “That’s true. I suppose it’s where we met, after all.” On top of the table, she covers his hand with hers.

They were twenty when they started dating. How can she judge me about Neil when she was only two years older when she met my dad?

“Actually—” I glance over at Neil, giving him a grin. “We were talking about maybe going backpacking in Europe this summer.”

I swear I see my mom’s hand tighten on my dad’s.

“Backpacking,” he says with a low whistle. “That would certainly be an experience. We must have some old Rick Steves guidebooks around here somewhere.…” As any good Pacific Northwesterner with a hint of wanderlust, my dad worships at the altar of travel icon Rick Steves.

My mom turns serious again. “Just the two of you?”