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I grab it first. The screen shows my mother’s face. I accidentally hit the speakerphone.

“Tu vas marier un Américain!” she screams, loud enough that I know everyone above the table can hear her.

“Maman,” I say, “c’est une—”

But she’s not stopping. Words pour out of her—rapid, furious, overlapping—and then my father takes the phone and starts in on me, demanding to know why he had to learn about this from a notification during Sunday lunch, and then my uncle Raoul takes the phone to wish me well before my mother grabs it back. “Are you so ashamed of us that you would not bring him home first?” she asks.

“No, of course I’m not!”

“Does he even speak French?”

“He’s learning.”

Above the table, Levi’s phone rings. “Hello? Momma! Yes, I’m getting married. Oh. Fine.”

A hand reaches down. Levi’s hand. “It’s for you,” he says, shoving the phone at me.

“Trade you.”

He takes it. “Bonjour, Madame Saint-Jacques—”

“You’re marrying my boy?” the woman at the other end asks me without preamble. “Who are your people?”

“They’re in Québec? I mean. They’re definitely still there. For right now.”

“They’re driving down,” Levi says.

“They’re driving down from Québec,” I amend. I peer up at Levi. “Wait, all of them?”

“Your uncle Raoul is staying up and Lisette’s keeping the kids in town. Yes, ma’am. I love him to pieces. No, ma’am, he’s not ashamed of you.”

“You tell Levi we’re coming, too.”

“Levi, your family is driving in from Tennessee.”

“Oh, goodie.”

“When are mine coming in?” I ask.

“Ask that boy when you’re getting married,” Levi’s mother says.

“Levi, she wants to know what date we were thinking of.”

“Next week,” Levi supplies.

“Next week,” I repeat. “Wait.” I bob my head up between Levi’s legs. “Next week, next week?”

“Your folks are leaving tomorrow,” he says.

I duck back under the table and crack my skull on the underside of the table so hard that the silverware rattles.

“You okay?” Levi asks, ducking down to inspect me.

“Tell your family not to come,” I whisper, handing back his phone. “Tell them we’re quarantined with COVID. Or leprosy. Something.”

“We should probably get up,” he says.

“I’m considering living under this table permanently.”