Mornings are bad, but, in the scheme of things, it’s dinners that are the most dire.

For the third night in a row this week, my mom and Ben have insisted that we all have “family dinner” together, which mostly involves Ben trying to relate to me and my mom trying to relate to Conner. But even that’s better than when they try to force Conner and me to interact, like we’re still two strangers who haven’t had more than one passing conversation with each other.

But if Heaven is a place on earth, I guess it stands to reason that Hell is too.

Tonight, my mom made blanched carrots and meatloaf. Ben helped out with the meat glaze—it’s some soupy brown sugar mixture he calls his “special sauce,” which made me snort despite myself.

“What? What’s funny?” Ben asks, brusquely, but not meanly. He just wants to be included.

“Don’t call something your ‘special sauce,’” I say. “At least not around my friends.”

“Haha,” he says, without laughing. He’s clearly trying to figure it out.

“Dean,” my mom says, trying not to smirk. “Please do not insult my guy’s special sauce.”

Something lights up inside Ben, and he turns bright red. “Oh,” he says. “Ohhhh.”

Across the table, Conner serves himself another slice of meatloaf and chews a little on his carrot. For a second I’m distracted by his white, dainty teeth. His bites are unexpectedly precise. I wouldn’t expect this from someone who leaves his wet towels on the floor.

“So,” my mom says, “The big school showcase is coming up. Who’s excited?”

“It’s going to be a good one,” Ben says. “I’m going to have my wrestlers do a mock-match, something quick and dirty to get everyone excited.”

I choke on my carrot.

“Ben,” I say. “You need to start educating yourself on euphemisms.”

“What did I say?”

“He’s giving you a hard time,” my mom says. “Don’t listen to him.”

I throw her a sour look, which she returns. Trying to throw Ben for a loop is how I get most of my pleasure these days. Usually, he acts clueless or just laughs along. He seems to be a little uneasy about the gay stuff, but weirdly trying to understand. I wonder if he’s always been like this, or if Conner’s seen another side of him that makes him scared to acknowledge his own shifting sexuality.

“Are you helping with, uh, the drama showcase?” Ben asks me.

“Just costumes,” I say. “They’re coming along nicely.”

“I’m excited for you to explain them to me,” Ben says with a wink. I laugh along, even though inside I think how that will not be happening.

“Conner,” my mom says, switching focus to the other son. These transitions are getting smoother every night. “Your dad says you’re acclimating to everything remarkably well.”

“I’m doing all right,” Conner says. “I’ve made friends with some pretty cool people. It’s been chill.”

“And we’re looking all-state for wrestling this year,” Ben says, giving Conner’s shoulders a hearty shake. He nearly drops his fork. “I’ve never seen him this focused.”

I look down. How on earth can Conner stay on top of everything when it seems like every day some part of my brain slips further and further away? I guess he really doesn’t think about these things as much as I do. Or he doesn’t care.

“Well, I can’t wait to cheer you on,” my mom says. “With Dean, I’ve never gotten the opportunity to go and watch sports games or anything like that.”

That statement shouldn’t feel like a knife in my side, but it does. I don’t even say anything. I had no idea my mom felt like that.

Conner glances at me, so quick I barely notice. But I can see a trace of sadness in his eyes. Or comfort. It makes me feel a little less alone.

“There’s already some groupies lining up,” Ben says. “Conner is the same as I was—the girls are all checking him out.”

“Dad,” Conner says tensely.

“You’re a scoundrel,” my mom says, but I can tell she loves the idea of having tied down a player.

“It’s true!” Ben says. “Who’s that girl that’s always around you? Angelica?”

The knife in my side twists.

“Whatever, Dad,” Conner says. “She’s not even into me.”

I swallow some meatloaf, don’t let a word slip out. It’s increasingly dangerous territory I’m in. Of course I can’t tell Conner about Angelica’s proposition now.

“Whatever you say,” Ben says. “Dean, do you uh, have any romantic prospects?”

My face is burning. Conner looks down at his plate.

“Hell no,” I say.

“I keep trying to set him up with Rocky,” my mom says. “Rocky, he’s my friend’s son. Such a handsome, nice guy.”

I have no idea if these descriptions are based in any kind of reality.

“Mom, I don’t want to—” I start, then notice Conner’s prickliness. This conversation is bothering him—I can tell. A vengeful part of me rears his head.

I let out a sudden, innocent sigh.

“Maybe you’re right, Mom,” I say. “I’ve sent off my application. The Les Mis costumes are in a good place. I should go on a date with Rocky.”

My mom lights up. “Oh, Melinda is going to be so excited.”

“Yeah,” Conner says, chewing some meatloaf like it’s a mush of dirt. “That’s so exciting.”

I can’t help a triumphant feeling from flashing inside me. I win this dinner, Conner.