To my surprise, Dave makes things feel at least a tiny bit normal. Dad lets us take leftovers to his and Pops’s room and we sit together on the great big bed, watching both versions of Hairspray and Mamma Mia! and Billy Elliot. I doubt it’s all that entertaining for Dave, but he doesn’t say anything. Sometimes I randomly feel the urge to cry, like I do on my period. Dave just finds more movies—West Side Story and Singin’ in the Rain and even The Rocky Horror Picture Show. He stands in front of the bed, dancing horribly to the Time Warp with his arms and legs flailing in all directions, until I’m laughing so hard that my face overheats.

“If you tell anyone,” he says, tossing himself back onto the bed, “I’ll deny it and no one will believe you.”

When I throw my arms around his neck, he stiffens, but still returns the hug. It must suck for him to be here, especially now, but he doesn’t fight with Dad after Thursday. For once, we’re more than Holiday Siblings.

On Sunday, I’m ambushed.

“What are you guys doing here?” I ask, turning to see Ralph, Brie, and Jack entering my parents’ room. They must feel really bad if they’re letting random kids in here. “How did you even get my address?”

“Twitter,” Brie says simply, bouncing on the bed. “And Julie gave us your address. It was probably against policy or something.”

The thought of Julie giving out my address should make me upset, but the feelings are just added to the “to-be-processed” pile at the bottom of my stomach. There’s so much shit going on that I’m running out of emotional bandwidth.

“We thought you could use some company.” Jack drops a plastic bag on the bed, pulling out a bag of Doritos and Double Stuf Oreos. “And we brought some snacks for you.”

It doesn’t make sense for a teenage boy to be so thoughtful. Jack must be a mutant or something. Miles, too. I sit up, pulling the snacks toward me. Brie pats the spot next to her, but Jack tosses himself on her lap. They collapse into a fit of giggles.

My mouth twitches into a smile, but my brain jumps to Miles. Laughing with him over Eddie Redmayne’s funny faces in Les Mis and making fun of each other for our complete inability to eat ice cream and the sunny feeling I get in my chest when I’m around him.

I feel a sharp stab of pain, too much for me to handle.

I turn my attention to the Doritos.

“I brought my laptop,” Brie says, giggles lingering. “So we can watch whatever you want, as long as it’s not horrible.”

“Then it’s not whatever she wants,” Jack points out. “And you hate everything.”

“Not everything.”

Oh God. I might puke.