“Look,” I say, “I totally get why you had an affair. Affairs, whatever. Mom sucks. You’re a good-looking man with a good personality, surrounded by impressionable students who probably all want to get with you.”

My dad looks like he is being jabbed in the back with a blunt object. I need to get to the point. “Did you sleep with a woman with the last name Webster? In the late eighties?” I’m not exactly sure how old Bo is, but he has to be around my age.

“Emily,” he says, “sit down. Slow down.”

“I don’t want to sit,” I say. “I am having the worst day of my entire life and I’m pretty sure it’s your fault.”

“What happened?” he asks.

“So I met this amazing guy,” I say.

“The one you mentioned at coffee?” my dad asks.

“Yes,” I say. “My crush.” My dad is a good listener for a dude. No wonder he has so much luck getting laid.

“So we were finally …” I pause. “Intimate.”

My dad makes a face, the blunt object poking him again. I feel both sad for him and enraged by him. If he is going to fuck around, he has to face the consequences.

“And this morning in bed,” I say, “he got a notification on his phone from ChromoZone.”

“Oh god.”

“I’M HIS SISTER!!” I shout. It feels good to yell like this, raw and unhinged. I make a mental note to channel this energy the next time I have an audition—just imagine confronting my father about cheating on my mom after finding out I inadvertently slept with my brother.

“Emily, I’m so sorry,” he says. I don’t blame him for not being able to come up with much. There isn’t exactly a parenting manual for this type of situation. What to Do When Your Daughter Storms into Your Office and Announces She Accidentally Slept with Her Brother because You Had an Affair Twenty-Nine Years Ago. For Dummies.

“I just wanted to confirm that it’s correct,” I say. “Before I close the door. Because he’s the best person I’ve ever met and the only person I’ve ever been able to see myself with, and I read online that ChromoZone can give false results.” This last part isn’t entirely true.

My dad rubs the bridge of his nose again. “I think the results are probably correct” is all he says.

“Fuck you,” I say. And I slam the door on my way out.

I am fuming when I arrive at Thomas’s car. Intensifying my rage, Thomas is flirting with an undergrad through his Volvo window. I walk right over to the girl, who is either the same girl from my dad’s office or another girl in a Friends T-shirt, and say, “He’s a sexual predator. Don’t make him violate his parole.”

She scurries away quickly.