“I just got a role in the new Nico Nadler movie,” I say. “He directed Solstice”—Thomas instructed me to say this—”and Inborn—”

“Oh, I know who he is,” my dad says. “He’s fantastic. That is just fantastic, Em. I am so proud of you.”

I could melt right here on the table.

I look over at my mom. “How are you paying your bills?” she asks predictably. Luckily, I have an answer for this, one that I’ve rehearsed several times.

“Oh, please, Sharon,” my dad says. “Let’s order a bottle of champagne. Our daughter is going to be a star.”

“You can’t exactly support yourself from one movie, can you?”

“Mom is right,” I say. I’m not going to let her get to me. “I have a well-paying job as an astrological consultant for SpaceX. Elon is a big astrology buff.” My mom’s expression remains dubious, but I keep going. “I have a salary and benefits.”

“Wow,” my dad says. “First Nico Nadler and now Elon Musk. This is just incredible, Em. I always knew you were destined for greatness.” He calls over the waiter. “We need to order a bottle of champagne.” He glances at the wine list. “How about the Jacques Selosse?” My dad goes crazy for anything French.

Thomas kicks me under the table again. In a brief moment of desperation, I grab his dick. His energy relaxes and then mine does too.

When the champagne arrives, my mom glares at it like it is poison. She refuses a pour: “I’m fine, thank you.” She purses her lips so hard I’m worried they’ll bleed.

“I find it hard to believe that Elon Musk is interested in astrology,” she says finally.

I am in the middle of my sip. I swallow. “Why?”

“He’s a genius,” she says.

“Well, so am I,” I say.

And then the boys and I clink glasses.

DAWN.

Out of pure desperation, I go to Steph and Beth’s for Thanksgiving. I am still annoyed at Steph and don’t want to be around her, but I want to be alone even less. I ask if I can bring anything and Steph says no, so I bring two bottles of Cook’s.

“Cheap champagne for Thanksgiving,” Beth says to me when she opens the door. “You’re something else, Dawn.”

I want to slap her across the face. But instead I take a deep breath and say, “I’m not much of a cook,” then gesture toward the label so she gets the joke.

She doesn’t laugh.

Beth escorts me through the house, which is decorated all white and beige and smells of home cooking, better than the restaurant, and into the backyard, which is unnaturally green and manicured. Beth has a good job in insurance or something, so she can afford a nice house and landscapers.