I carry my pillows, flat sheet, and silk fleece blanket down to my office and make up the couch. It’s a daybed, technically: nice for naps and domestic disputes. Had I known this piece of furniture would turn on me, I’d have left it on the floor at Restoration Hardware. I’m all worked up now, though, and hardly tired, so I head to the wet bar in the living room to fix myself a drink. Chivas and soda. Through a wall of windows, I watch the blurry silhouettes of my son and his friend, masked behind curtains and yellow light in the guesthouse across the yard. I step outside. Muffled music radiates from this little after-hours the boys have going.

Bob Marley. Legend.

The half-moon is electric tonight, and the air is warm, so I close the door and take a seat in a reclining pool chair. I wonder if I’m imagining the smell of pot coming from the guesthouse—if it’s my paternal projection born of experience, because I was once twenty, too—and decide that yes, I’m probably imagining it, and no, it isn’t my business anyway.

“Three Little Birds” begins, and I relax. Across the yard and behind a door, my son and his friend laugh. Why would I hesitate to let Nick feel at home here? What kind of father would give Elizabeth’s hospitality a second thought? It’s true: Nick isn’t a stranger. He’s been coming around all year. Last summer, he and Jonah would go to the beach to watch girls, then come back to my house to eat all my food. He didn’t bother me then, nor does he bother me now, I just never got a feel for the boy. He never sent thank-you notes acknowledging our generosity. He never brought a houseplant or a box of pastries. Of course, I never expected thank-you notes from Jonah’s high school friends, who were far less gracious or considerate—splattering the kitchen with queso and Mountain Dew, blasting Call of Duty after midnight, sneaking girls over to skinny-dip in our pool when Jonah was asleep but I wasn’t—so maybe I should cut the kid some slack.