“I was so awkward on the dance floor the other night,” Nick explains. “I thought I’d get some tips from a pro while I can.”

I laugh. “Yeah, Elizabeth is some pro.”

The front door opens and closes, and Jonah enters with a grocery bag full of fixings for banana splits: Reddi-wip, Magic Shell, crushed peanuts, M&Ms, bananas. He drops his bags and flips open the pizza boxes. “Really, Dad? Four pieces of cheese seemed like enough?”

“They couldn’t split white with sauce,” I try to explain—but Nick is quietly defending me by helping himself to Elizabeth’s pie.

“The cheese is all yours,” he tells Jonah. To me, he says, “My dad used to make white pizza. I love this stuff.”

We avoid acknowledging Nick’s dead dad, but Elizabeth does give Nick a tender smile.

We load up our plates and sit at the table to stuff our faces and talk with our mouths full. I try the white pizza just for kicks and hate to admit (to myself) that it’s the best of the three. We talk and tell stories, and when we’ve made ourselves sick to our stomachs, we stretch and sigh, then gnaw on crust to ensure our misery.

Nick finds us charming, I guess, because he suddenly gets precious about the dinner and the day. “You guys are lucky to have what you have. I never got to go fishing with my dad. I don’t even know if my mom ever fished.”

I can’t stand to ignore him again—to pretend like he’s not desperate to talk about them—so I ask, “And how did they die, Nick?”

Jonah drops his fork. Elizabeth closes her eyes.

Nick doesn’t do drama, though, which I respect. “My mom had ALS,” he tells me, matter-of-fact. “It was long. It was awful. Wore my dad down. He killed himself two months after she died.”

“Oh God,” Elizabeth says, bringing her hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry, Nick.”

“Thanks,” he says. “In a way, it’s almost romantic, I guess. Maybe I just tell myself that to cope. But they really loved each other. I think they couldn’t live without each other.”

Elizabeth clutches Nick’s hand and keeps holding it on the table. When no one else takes the bait, I finally ask. “How did he do it?”

“Jesus, Dad.”

“He put a gun in his mouth,” Nick tells me. “Shot himself in the head.”

“Oh, Nick. We don’t have to talk about this,” says Elizabeth. “I’m so sorry.”