UP TO MY ELBOWS IN warm, soapy water and worn-out from a particularly grueling track practice, I felt relaxed. Very relaxed. So relaxed that I pondered aloud about the theoretical appropriateness of relationships with older men, right as I was handing my mom a sharp knife to rinse off and place on the drying rack.

The knife slipped in her hand and the tip grazed her palm. “Excuse me?” she asked.

“I think the knife got you,” I said as I watched a dot of blood blossom on her hand.

“I’m fine,” she said, not looking at it. “Did you just ask me whether I thought a relationship between a teenager and an adult could work out?”

“I don’t think that’s exactly what I said. And you really should put a Band-Aid on that,” I told her as the dot grew larger. “If you don’t, you’ll get blood on the dishes and I’ll have to redo them.”

“I’m fine,” she repeated. “I’d really like you to tell me why you brought that up just now. Why you think that kind of relationship might be a good idea.”

By now I was pretty clear that she was not a fan of the concept, but her tone made me want to dig in. “There was that female teacher and her student we saw on the news. She went to jail but they stayed together. Even had a kid, I think. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“No, all it means is that she preyed on that poor kid and he became infatuated with her. That’s not a healthy relationship.”

She was probably right about that not being the best example. I tried another tack.

“Okay, fine. But don’t people talk about age being only a number, and don’t people sometimes fall in love with someone you’d never expect? And maybe it isn’t all happily ever after but it’s still real? They still care about each other?”

She stared at me, her eyes searching my face. “Is there something you want to tell me?” she said slowly.

“Tell you? No.”

“Because if there’s a teacher at school, or maybe a friend of the family, who is pressuring you—”

It clicked. “Oh God, no. No.” For some reason, my mind went not to Mr. Matthews, but to a visual of Mr. Richards using his potbelly to trap me against the circular saw.

“Are you sure? Because you won’t be in trouble, but if there is, then it’s very important that we talk about—”

“No.”

“There isn’t?” A sliver of hope entered her voice.

“No,” I repeated firmly. “I promise.”

“Oh, thank God.” She leaned against the sink. “Because age really isn’t just a number, Jess. Remember that, and never trust someone who says otherwise. Okay?”

I nodded, because I really wanted us to get off the subject already. Bringing it up had been a huge mistake.

“Okay,” she said. Then she glanced down at her hand. “Oh, I really should put a Band-Aid on that.”

“I’ll get you one,” I said, happy to have an excuse to get away.

As I went through the bathroom cupboard, I wondered why I’d said it. And I kept coming back to how I wasn’t so clear anymore about how I felt about the idea of Mr. Matthews and Anna. Initially, I’d thought if they’d been together, that made him a creep, a predator. Yet watching him in his house had made it more difficult for me to think of him that way. I wondered if it was possible there’d been something good between them. In a way, I hoped there had been, because there would be no do-over for her, no second chance to find someone who’d get it right.

Still, maybe it was delusional to think they could’ve had anything good together, naïve to feel differently toward him because I’d seen him cry and talk to his cat. I wasn’t sure.

I missed being sure.