Now I understood what was happening. Trevor was strip-mining our conversation from a few nights ago. I had told him about my marriage breakup in an almost semi-conscious state but Trevor, it turned out, had been on high alert the whole time, hoarding all the jagged little details. But how many of these details had he got from me, and how many from Irene? I couldn’t remember all the things I’d said to Trevor that night. But I knew I never would have used a word like co-eds.

“He was fucking them co-eds!” Trevor crowed. “Six ways from Sunday! And no wonder!”

A glass went soaring across the room. We all watched as it sailed past the fridge, where I had more or less aimed, and instead flew through the entryway, down into the foyer, shattering in the place where all of us had taken off our shoes.

Trevor looked at me with satisfaction. “Gonna be a mess,” he said.

I said he should leave.

“I’m not the one flinging dishes around.” Trevor seemed calmer, pleased now that I had acted out, as if I’d ceded the moral high ground altogether, leaving him king of that particular mountain.

“It’s getting late,” I said. “You should probably be getting Mike home.”

Trevor, who’d been leaning against the counter, now straightened up and clapped his hands at Mike.

“Let’s go, buddy,” he said. “Damn right I’m not exposing my kid to this bullshit.”

“I want ice-cream, though,” said Mike after a moment.

“We got it at home.”

“No we don’t,” said Mike.

“Jesus Christ!” bellowed Trevor.

“Take it!” I jumped up and went to the freezer. “Just take it with you.” I grabbed the ice-cream and tucked it, for some reason, under my arm. Trevor watched as I moved around him to get a plastic bag from beneath the sink. Even though he was standing in my way, he didn’t give any ground, so I had to maneuver carefully in order not to come into physical contact with him. This whole time the tub of ice-cream was turning my right breast into a block of ice. Finally I stuffed the ice-cream into the plastic bag and held it out to him, but Trevor didn’t take it. So I put it on the table in front of Mike. Neither Mike nor Trevor moved. Mike was watching Trevor, and Trevor was watching me with an expression like I’d just finished performing some kind of filthy, degenerate act in front of him and his son.

“Thank you for the barbecue,” I said.

“What more do you want me to do?” said Trevor.

“I don’t want you to do anything,” I said.

“Oh, that’s fuckin hilarious. If it wasn’t for me, someone woulda carted ol’ Beaner off to the group home long ago. Before her sister got her fuckin killed.”

I wasn’t going to rise to this. Something about my maneuver with the tub of ice-cream, radiating coldness into my boob and armpit, had brought me back to myself — grounded me in a way I hadn’t been able to ground myself when I’d been in the driveway, hollering at Jessica Hendy. Trevor was still spoiling for more of a fight, but I wasn’t going to give it to him.