The birthday dinner is at my parents’ sterile suburban home, predictably located at the end of a cul-de-sac. My dad’s affair, apparently, was not a secret to my mom. Neither of them knew the affair had bred offspring, but my mom seems oddly okay with having Bo come to the house. In fact, she greets him more warmly than she greets me. And she greets Thomas more warmly than she greets both of us.

Bo hands my dad a book called Ask the Dust and says, “Thanks for lending it to me.”

“Gotta love Fante,” Thomas says, like the little cuck he is, and my dad seems thrilled.

“Bo told me there is a club called Ask the Dust in Silver Lake,” my dad says. “I wanted to check it out, but he told me I probably wouldn’t like it.”

I feel ill, watching my dad bond with these idiot boys, one of whom, I suppose, is technically “his son.” But I assume Fante’s ghost feels worse, having had his book co-opted by a bar where trashy suburbanites and overeager cucks do bad blow to Migos.

“I couldn’t in good faith recommend it,” Thomas says, “but I’ve had a few good nights there.”

I roll my eyes, and Bo laughs.

My parents usher us into the living room, which is beige and open plan. I haven’t been here since Christmas, the day I told my dad the truth, when he reacted in a kind and understanding way, a typical Pisces.

I make a mental note to ask for my money back from my hypnotist.

My dad pours us glasses of wine, and my mom brings out a plate of cheese and nuts. The wine is lukewarm and tastes sour. The food is likely from Costco, shiny and overprocessed. And Bo has assumed a Thomas-esque eagerness, complimenting the shitty wine and the plasticky cheese. It is hard to watch. I go into the bathroom and splash some water onto my face, sit on the toilet, and hit my vape pen.

When I return, I feel a little better, although mildly paranoid. It is weird to me that everyone is acting so normal. Thomas comes over and squeezes my hand. He has been a good support to me over the past few months, but I worry it comes with strings. He’s fresh off the rejection from Clover and is probably transferring those feelings onto me. I’ve been reading a lot of Freud since my big incest snafu.

After Christmas, I told my dad that Thomas is not my boyfriend and he is not a consultant, and my dad said I am too good for him, which delighted me.

“Em, how is the astrology business?” my dad asks, grabbing a cube of cheese. He doesn’t ask this with any degree of condescension, although my mom purses her lips tightly.