“Hall, I’d like for you to send Dani Seeley a gift basket of Godiva chocolates,” I mutter quietly so that only he can hear me. “And some nice wine and cheese.”

“Done.”

The audience claps for the four pairs of dancers. I don’t ordinarily watch this show, so I don’t know who any of the professional dancers are, but I recognize the celebrities. Other than Candy and Lucas, there’s also the well-known daughter of a Republican senator, her claim to fame being the daughter of a Republican senator, and Craig Robinson. The camera pans up to the balcony where past competitors are clapping, past Kimberly J. Brown and Freddie Prinze Jr., to Lacey Chabert, the sight of whom makes Hall spring into the air.

“I love her!” he cries. He grabs my father and hugs him. Then sets him down immediately when he notes the look on Dad’s face. “Sorry, I just love Lacey Chabert. Don’t you just love Lacey Chabert?”

Hall cannot believe Lacey Chabert isn’t competing in the finale, since she’s more talented than anyone in the world. I try not to feel jealous. He gets as close to the TV as he’s physically able, threading his hands through his hair as if prepping himself to meet her in person. All throughout Craig’s and Candy’s dances, he’s filling us in on Lacey’s film history like a talking IMDb page. “Doesn’t this show usually air on Mondays?” Kaia asks in her lazy, vaguely interested way, but she’s promptly drowned out by Hall’s play-by-play of Christmas Waltz.

“It’s one of her best,” he informs us. “Christmas in Rome might be my favorite, but”—he frames his mouth with a curved hand, as if imparting a tremendous secret—“don’t tell Winter in Vail.”

“I won’t,” Felix and Mom say in unison, one of them sarcastic and the other sincere. I glare at my brother.

He crosses his eyes at me.

Hall’s good humor evaporates when it’s Lucas’s time to shine. Strobe lights spangle Lucas’s face as his charismatic essence unrolls from center stage like a fog. Lucas’s most popular single, “Send Tweet,” which he dropped a month after our breakup, begins to play, and I am struck with a very, very bad feeling.

I wish I had a thicker skin. I try to be a steel wall, but a deft jab sends my confidence plummeting. Lucas’s dancing partner emerging from the shadows in a red polka-dotted swing dress is a throat punch, and I feel my mouth curving into a gruesome smile. So this is why Lucas posted about me, dragging my name, our relationship, back into the public consciousness.

They dance together, looking so in love, until she pretends to stab him in the heart with a toy knife, and Lucas death-drops to roaring applause. As he rises back to his feet, face twisted with emotion, the song fluidly rolls into a passionate instrumental cover of “Evil Woman.” It’s intolerably cheesy. I can barely see him, my vision is so red and pulsing.