He criticizes the objectively delicious omelets Jack makes for breakfast and then launches into an offensive and ableist lecture about how Jack could have been more successful in life if she just buckled down and didn’t use her ADHD as an excuse. He oscillates between berating Andrew (for the way he dresses, for the way he eats, for the way he sits in a chair) and wanting to talk business with him. The real kicker, though, comes when he insults Katherine’s laminated schedule and refuses to participate in family games. This leads to the postponing of family game night so Katherine and Alan can go upstairs to scream at each other.

At which point Meemaw hands Andrew her credit card and tells us to get out of the house for a while, like an older sibling sending the kids to get ice cream while Mommy and Daddy fight.

Whatever. I love ice cream and hate fighting, so I happily accept Meemaw’s suggestion.

“You know what?” Dylan says thirty minutes later from the backseat of Andrew’s Tesla. “I really fucking hate your dad.”

For once, Dylan’s anger feels directed at the right source.

We don’t go get ice cream. Andrew takes us to a bar—aptly named the Mountain Bar—a dive right along the highway, next to a gas station called “Gas” and a little market called “Market.” Like the Kim-Prescott cabin, the bar is designed to look like an old-fashioned lodge, but unlike the Kim-Prescott cabin, the Mountain Bar mostly succeeds in this endeavor. It’s made of interlocking logs, with wood beam ceilings that look damp with age, scuffed hardwood floors, single-paned windows, and a vast collection of original neon signs for Budweiser and Coors Light. The crowd is a mix of grizzled locals, seasonal ski instructors, and groups of tourists staying on the mountain for the holidays.

Andrew looks like a tourist but moves like a local, ordering us two pitchers of Rainier beer and leading us to a dark booth in the back. Andrew and I slide into one side of the booth; Dylan and Jack slide into the other. Underneath the table, Jack’s knee brushes mine, and I need a drink if I’m going to—

No, I decide as a bearded server sets the pitchers and foggy plastic cups down on the table. Here we are, the four members of the love trapezoid, isolated together at an establishment full of alcohol. It’s probably best if I try approaching Jack sober for once. A few hours ago, she touched my foot with her shoe and I was ready to give up two hundred thousand dollars for her.

Sober is my best bet.