“Why do you have to go out of your way to look annoyed with us?”

“I have a headache. Am I not allowed to have a headache?”

Felix remembers that he’s in method mode for his Rochester role, responding to everybody in clipped, guttural growls that I laugh at. Athena purses her lips at me, a startling clone of our mother. “Can’t you be nice?”

Felix, angry that I’m not paying him the respect he is owed as Serious Filmmaker, tells Hall that he should pull his film so that it doesn’t get bashed by critics for copying Felix’s. “Can’t you be supportive?” Mom groans. Athena’s baby sneezes mashed potatoes onto Dad’s plate. He shoves to his feet.

“You can’t get mad at a baby, James.” Grandma, who has never liked babies and whose upbringing of my mother in a big, lonely house as an only child scarred her in such a way that Mom brought four children into the world and then told them they were all beautiful, perfect cherubs, says to Dad, “That’s your grandson!”

“I’m not mad at a baby! I’m getting Tylenol. Am I not allowed to get Tylenol?” Under his breath, he adds, “And never come back.”

Mom notes Athena’s wineglass. “Are you breastfeeding?”

Athena’s husband looks up, his brain registering only the word breast. Grandma pinches his arm. He yells. His baby cries. I’d cry too if my name was Fang.

“Can you just not?” he asks his unfortunately named infant.

“Don’t snap at my great-grandson,” Grandma tells him.

“He’s my son, I can talk to him however I like.”

Grandpa rises from his chair, as well, taking his turn to be the one who gets to dramatically exit dinner. It’s a coveted role. Sean smirks at him, but I wouldn’t be so confident. Grandpa was a Marine, briefly.

“Does anybody want a cookie?” Hall asks frantically, thrusting the dish at everyone in turn. The magic of ice skating has already worn off, and now we’re all poking each other. The only person who accepts a cookie is the four-month-old.

I tug Hall after me into the living room, but the hope of peace is obliterated when I see what’s happening on the television (105 inches—impossible to miss): the Dancing with the Stars title card sparkles across the screen. Cannons shoot off in my gut.

I should go over and switch it off, but I can’t move.

Athena’s model friend Candy Olship sambas onstage, hips swishing. Instead of a skirt, she’s wearing a few red tassels, and she’s stunning. Athena wanders into the room, followed by the rest of the family. “Oh, look, it’s Candy! We have to watch this.”

I’m all braced for Lucas, but still flinch when he dances out, smiling the same smile I fell in love with. I wonder how many other women are haunted by that smile, and as his dancing partner beams back at him, my body is clinched by a funny, cold feeling. I was once hospitalized for dehydration after a day of sledding on sand dunes with friends. When they stuck the needle into my arm and started pumping me with fluids, the needle slipped out of the vein and I felt this horrible coldness seeping into all the wrong parts. Panic hit the roof. I slammed the call button to bring a nurse back in, wondering what would happen if too much fluid leaked out where it didn’t belong, if I would die. Making one-way eye contact with Lucas feels exactly like that, except everywhere: my temples, behind my ears, double-helixing around my spine. An invasive foreign substance.