Yeah, Dad, next time. Sure. Next time Conor’s here, you’ll probably be locked in your bedroom, per usual. Actually, Conor’s the one person my dad seems to want to communicate with on the rare occasions he wants to communicate at all—they talk about band stuff, commiserate on how hard it is being a musician. The first couple years after my dad decided to pursue that shit as, like, an actual career, he’d corner Conor in the kitchen every time Conor was over here, asking him about equipment and whether he’d listened to whatever dumb band Pitchfork was talking about that week. All that bullshit stuff that means everything when you’re my age but should mean less than nothing when you’re an adult with two kids and a mortgage. It was fucking embarrassing.

That’s when my mom started working so much—in part because money got tight, I think, although it’s not like my parents sat down and discussed finances with me, more like because every time she was around my dad, her face would get pinched and narrow as he talked and talked and talked about his music. I know he played when they first got together in college; I know because years ago my own mother told me, sounding proud. But I don’t think she expected him to try to make it his actual profession, decades later. I don’t know—but I do know that these days, I can’t tell who sucks more: my dad, who hangs out in his pajamas all day, or my mom, who is never home.

I nod and give my dad a tight-lipped smile.

“C’mon,” I say to Conor.

His head is bouncing back and forth between me and my dad like he’s watching a tennis match he wishes he could figure out how to turn off, and when I address him, he hops right off the stool.

“Yup. Yeah. Ready. Let’s go.”

“Gwen home?” My dad’s still trying to engage with me. “I haven’t seen her.”

“Upstairs.” I point to the ceiling, like maybe I can magically beam him up there, away from me. “Gotta go.”

“All right, well, see you later? Don’t get home too late.”

I roll my eyes, because the last time either of my parents actually cared when I got home was back in eighth grade. I could disappear off the face of the earth and they probably wouldn’t notice until Gwen needed something and no one was there to help her. I shoot him a sarcastic thumbs-up and walk out of the kitchen.

As I put my hand on the knob of the front door, I hear him call softly down the hall, “Love you, kid.” I flare my nostrils and pull the door open so fast that it shakes on its hinges.

I look back at Conor. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”