“And you were only there for the fun of it? At a gay bar?”

He shrugs and smiles playfully. “I like the atmosphere.”

“Wait. You’ve been there before. What about Melissa?” I ask, trying to read between the lines.

“What about Melissa? She’s my ex-girlfriend. It’d be kind of weird if I took her out on a date. Don’t you think? If you’re wondering, though, she was a big Peppa fan, too.” He stands up. “I better get back out there.”

“So you’re not going to swear to beat the shit out of me if I tell anyone I saw you at the Hideaway?”

“I’m not trying to keep secrets.” He walks out the door to the garage.

I wait for the door to shut behind him before I let out an exhausted sigh. Did I wake up in the Twilight Zone today? I know that technically he doesn’t owe me any kind of answers, but I can’t get the image of him out of my head. His coy smile, neon lights blurring behind him.

I finish up my breakfast and shuffle out to the living room, unable to help how mopey I am. Mom sits in her recliner and is playing mah-jongg on her iPad while catching up on her DVR.

Dramatically, I spread out on the couch next to her recliner, daring her to ask me what’s wrong so I can tell her all about the way everything in my body right down to my guts is twisted into a knot and that I feel restless and aimless and just . . . less.

She doesn’t take the bait.

“Sweet of that boy to come over and look at the car. I told your father I’d take it in this week, but he insisted. He’s taken a real shine to that boy.”

“Maybe he can adopt him,” I say. “Swap me out for a more useful model.”

She chuckles at something on her iPad or at me and my endless misery. Probably both.

“Where’s Clem?” I ask.

“Hannah’s.”

Ah, yes, living her life without me. It’s like when we were in middle school and we both agreed to stay up late the night before a history test and blow off studying for reruns of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Except when I passed out, Clem studied without me. Only one of us failed the test the next day.

“Are we going to Grammy’s for dinner?” I can feel my questions needling at her.

“That’s the plan.” She sighs, closes the cover on her iPad, and stands. “I need a pedicure. And you’re clearly emotionally afflicted in some kind of way.”

I moan. “Is it that obvious?”

“All right, up and at ’em! We’re getting these little piggies painted and you’re driving.”