I hear the television turn off, and Lana races into the kitchen, her feet slapping on the linoleum.

“Can I sit next to Neil?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Melanie says with that wonder you use when you’re talking to a kid. “You should ask him, not me.”

Lana turns to me without skipping a beat. “Can I sit here?”

“Sure thing.”

What, am I going to tell a little kid no?

She pulls her chair out and climbs into it. I think Wyatt said she was four? But she seems pretty independent for a kid her age. Melanie sets out the rest of the food, and I wait until she’s made her own plate and Lana’s before I take some eggs and bacon.

As Lana is chewing on the end of a piece of bacon of her own, she keeps staring at me with these wide brown eyes.

“Lana, it’s rude to stare,” Melanie says.

“It’s okay,” I assure her.

“You’re pretty,” Lana blurts out, and Melanie laughs. “Your eyelashes are nice.”

I laugh too. “Thank you.”

“So, Neil … Wyatt told us that you spontaneously showed up at midnight and were just staying till morning.”

“Right, yeah. I’m sorry about the late arrival.”

“It’s okay. Wyatt’s guests are our guests. You can stay as long as you’d like.”

“Thank you. Hopefully it won’t be too long.” I wonder how much Wyatt told their parents about me, the things that I’ve done and said. I get the vibe that they’re all pretty close with one another.

I don’t get the feeling that this is a woman who hates me for breaking her kid’s heart, for making them go home early, for basically kicking them out of the state of California. Then again, maybe a part of southern hospitality is treating the boy your child hates with some level of kindness.

“So how was the wedding? I thought you wouldn’t be coming back to school for a few days.”

“Yeah, some stuff happened.”

“It was surprising when he asked us to come get him, so late too,” she says. Again, it’s hard to read what she’s getting at through her tone.

“Sorry about that.” I put my fork down, my appetite gone just like that.

“He didn’t tell us much. We figured that something had gone wrong, but we weren’t going to push it. Did the two of you have a fight?”

“You could say that.”

“Do you want jam on your toast?” she asks, dropping the subject just like that.

When we’re all done eating, Wyatt still hasn’t come downstairs, which is only making my anxiety about the entire situation spike even worse. What am I going to say to them?

“Why don’t you help me with the dishes?” Melanie asks, and it’s definitely not a request. “It’s usually Wyatt’s job.”