I want to prove to Wyatt Fowler that I love them.

And I think I have an idea.

*  *  *

Wyatt’s other mother, code-named Mom—but she insists that I call her Amanda—comes home around six, after an entire day of Wyatt and me basically being forced to stay in the living room while Melanie works on her own homework and we watch over Lana.

At least it’s nice to share a space with them.

Despite us being under their mama’s watchful eye, I still feel comfortable on the couch with them, and it feels like we’re not faking this. I guess after a week of fooling people, it’s still hard to get a grasp on what’s real and what isn’t.

Dinner is served, which turns out to be pasta with spicy Italian sausage and garlic bread, and afterward, it’s still my job to help with the dishes, though this time it’s with Amanda. She’s a Black woman, shorter than her wife, with her curls in tight coils that hang over the sheared sides of her head.

“You two seemed to be very comfortable on the couch earlier,” she observes.

“Oh, um … yes, ma’am.” I wonder if I’ll ever feel comfortable talking to either of their parents, or if I’m condemning myself to a relationship of being completely awkward around them, making a fool of myself at every turn.

“Good.” She hands me a wet pot. “Wyatt likes you a lot. He was telling us all about your trip on his phone calls.”

“Really?”

She nods. “You’ll have to come over more weekends, visit, have dinner.”

“I’d like that. I’ve never really had a place to go on the weekends.”

“Wyatt also told us a few things about your family. Life doesn’t need to be like that.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “Things are getting better, I think. My mother and I had a good conversation.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that, Neil. Now get your butt in the living room—it’s Jeopardy! time.”

The rest of the night is us in the living room. Lana’s put to bed, while Melanie turns on Jeopardy! and we all watch from the couch. Well, I watch, but the three of them get pretty into it. Amanda kills it with the most correct answers, with Melanie close behind her and Wyatt in last. (Seriously, Wyatt’s parents bust out an app that keeps track of their scores.)

“Better luck next time, Wyatt.” Amanda pats them on the knee, a grin of self-satisfaction on her face.

“European history always throws you off,” I say. “I told you that you needed to get a tutor.”

Melanie and Amanda both laugh. “We said that same thing, but he claims no one at Steerfield is offering.”

“Because they aren’t!” Wyatt insists.