Cameron says that as long as her parents do not need her to do something, she will be there on Saturday.

That is not a yes, but it is close enough to a yes that Mom accepts it when I tell her.

"Almost confirmed," I say.

Mom smiles. "That's fine, honey. Almost confirmed is a good start."

I do not know why almost confirmed is a good start. Confirmed is a good start. Almost confirmed is a waiting room.

But I do not say that because Mom is already happy, and Paul has been making jokes about Cameron since Texas Roadhouse.

The ride home is mostly quiet.

Mom's quiet folky rock music plays through the speakers because Dad always lets her control the radio. I do not understand that. In my truck, I would not let a girl control the music. Not because she is a girl. Because it would be my truck, and the driver should choose the music. That seems like a rule.

But Dad always lets Mom control the music.

He even listens to songs where women sing about rivers and old houses and being lonely in fields. Sometimes he taps the steering wheel like he likes them.

Maybe marriage changes your ears.

Paul is in the backseat with me, leaned against the door with his head tipped slightly back. He has been in a half food coma since we got into Mom's SUV. His eyes are open, but not very much. I think he is tired. He had a long day of travel, and then he had to sit in our den and be hugged by Mom and Dad and sobbed on by me, and then he ate enough food for three people and drank beer that is probably working in his blood now.

He has been putting on a good face.

I know he has.

Paul is very good at that.

"Paul," Mom says suddenly, her voice bright.

Bright like she is trying to start a fun conversation.

Bright like headlights from a car coming the other direction.

"When are you going to bring a nice girl home?"

Paul squints.

"What?"

"A nice girl," Mom repeats with a laugh. "You never bring home any girls, Paul. We want to meet them."

Dad keeps his eyes on the road.

That is not unusual because he is driving, but it feels more on purpose now.

Mom turns a little in the passenger seat so she can look back at Paul. "I know living in that house an hour from home lets you waltz them in and out without us knowing."

Paul blinks slowly.

He does not look embarrassed.

That is what I notice first.

If Mom said that to me, I would want to climb out of the moving car and let traffic finish me. Paul does not do that. He just looks tired for one second, then amused, then something else I cannot name.

"Jesus, Mom," he says. "You make me sound like a pirate."

"Well?" she says. "Am I wrong?"

"Yes."

"You don't have girls over?"

Paul rubs his thumb along his eyebrow. "I'm not talking about this with Eric in the car."

"I know about sex," I say.

Mom makes a sound in her throat.

Dad coughs once.

Paul turns his head slowly and looks at me. "Kid."

"What? I do."

"I am begging you not to help."

"I was only providing relevant information."

"It was not helpful."

"It was factual."

"Still not helpful."

Mom sighs, but she is smiling again. "I'm just saying. You're handsome. You're successful. You have your own home. You've never been serious about anyone, and you're nearly thirty. I'd like to think you might bring someone home someday. Maybe have a family of your own."

Paul looks out the window.

The side of his face is reflected faintly in the glass, layered over the dark trees and the big houses set far back from the road. I can see both Pauls. The real one and the window one.

"I'm busy," he says.

"You're always busy."

"I'm a Marine."

"That does not mean you can't date."

"I date."

Mom turns more fully in her seat. "Then bring one home."

"Mom."

"What?"

"No."

The word is flat—not angry, just closed.

Mom's smile slips for half a second. Then she puts it back.

"Well, not tonight, obviously," she says, like she can make it a joke again if she keeps her voice light. "But sometime. I would like to meet someone important to you."

Paul does not answer right away.

The music keeps playing. A woman sings something about being carried home by a river. The heater blows warm air at my knees. Dad's turn signal clicks even though we are still a long way from our street, which means he clicked it too early because he is thinking about something else.

"I'll let you know," Paul says finally.

Mom goes quiet.

That is worse than when she keeps talking.

I look at Paul.

He is still looking out the window. His jaw is moving slightly, like he is biting the inside of his cheek. He does that when he wants to say something and does not.

I do not know what he wants to say.

Maybe he does have a girl and does not want Mom to meet her.

Maybe he does not have a girl and Mom is making him feel bad about it.

Maybe he is tired and beer-sleepy and Mom is asking him questions when he just got home.

I do not like it.

"Paul can come to Cameron dinner," I say.

Everyone looks at me.

That was not where the conversation was supposed to go, but I put it there anyway because the other place felt bad.

Paul's mouth twitches.

Mom blinks. "What?"

"Saturday," I say. "Paul can come to Cameron dinner. Then you can meet a girl at dinner and he will be there."

For one second, nobody says anything.

Then Paul starts laughing.

Not loud like at Texas Roadhouse. Softer. Tired. But real enough that the tight thing in the car loosens a little.

"You hear that, Mom?" Paul says. "Problem solved. I'll meet Eric's girl."

"She is not my girl."

"She asked you to prom."

"That is not ownership."

Dad laughs then, finally.

Mom turns back around in her seat, but I can see her smiling in the side mirror.

"No," she says. "It is definitely not ownership."

Paul nudges my knee with his.

I look at him.

He is still smiling, but his eyes are tired.

"Thanks, kid," he says.

"For what?"

He shakes his head and looks out the window again. "Nothing."

I hate when people say nothing when it is not nothing.

But I let him have it because he is home.

And because sometimes Paul lets me have things I cannot explain either.

When we get to the gate, Mr. Hill waves us in because he knows our car. Dad lifts two fingers off the steering wheel in a small wave, and we drive through GREYSON ESTATES.

Straight, left, left, right.

That is how you get to our house.

Except tonight, before we turn the second left, Dad makes a sound under his breath.

"Gang's all here," he mutters.

It is not a happy mutter.

I look out the window and see the Johnsons' house lit up. Not regular lit up. Party lit up. Strings of lights stretch across the patio, and little lanterns line the walkway. People stand around the grill holding drinks and paper plates while children run across the lawn with glow bracelets around their wrists. One little boy has a cupcake with blue frosting, and his mouth is blue too. The little girl with the purple beads in her braids jumps near the driveway while one of the Mr. Johnsons talks to another man by the grill.

It looks like a party.

It does not look like a crime.

"I can't understand how the HOA allows that," Dad says.

Paul's head turns.

"What?" he asks. "People having a party?"

I glance at him. He is staring straight ahead at the lights, and his face does not look sleepy anymore.

"It's not just a party," Mom says from the front seat. Her voice has gone tight and bright at the same time, which is never good. "It's just—lewd, Paul."

I look back out the window because I need to check.

Lewd means sexual or obscene.

No one is naked. No one is doing anything with body parts people are not supposed to show outside. The taller Mr. Johnson has his hand on the shorter Mr. Johnson's lower back while they talk to someone. A woman kisses another woman on the cheek and then takes a plate from her. Two men sit in chairs close together while a toddler climbs over both of their knees.

That is all I see.

"And with children around?" Mom says. "How are those children ever supposed to know what a normal family looks like?"

I look back out the window again. The little girl with the purple beads in her braids is chasing one of her brothers across the lawn. She is laughing so hard her whole body bends forward, and one of the Mr. Johnsons calls something after her, probably telling her to slow down.

That seems like normalcy to me.

I do not say that because sometimes my correct observations make people angry, and I do not know which correct observations are allowed.

Mom sighs. "Did you know that little girl was a foster and then they adopted her last year? Kyle Johnson was telling me at the mailbox a few months ago. The state let them be foster parents. I just—"

She stops, like even she knows the next words should maybe stay inside her mouth.

But then she says them anyway.

"I can't understand that. Of course I didn't say that to him, but all of it just bothers me."

Paul is very still beside me.

That is how I know something is happening inside him. When Paul is angry in the normal way, he talks. He jokes meaner. He makes his voice go sharp. But this is different. This is him going still like he is on a gun range and someone just told him not to move.

"All of what?" Paul asks.

Mom turns slightly, but not all the way. "Paul."

"No, I'm asking." His voice is calm. Too calm. "All of what?"

Dad exhales hard through his nose. "Don't start."

"I didn't start anything."

"Paul," Dad says.

"They're standing in their own yard."

"They're making a display of it," Mom says.

"A display of what?"

Mom does not answer right away. The SUV keeps moving slowly because we are still on the neighborhood road, and the party slides past my window in pieces. Lights. People. Kids. The shiny black mailbox with JOHNSON written on it in gold letters. A woman laughing with her head tipped back. The shorter Mr. Johnson picking up the little girl with the purple beads and swinging her once until she squeals.

That seems like family to me.

I do not say that either.

Paul says it instead.

"Looks like a family to me."

The car goes quiet.

Not regular quiet.

Bad quiet.

Mom faces forward again. "You know what I mean."

"No," Paul says. "I really don't."

Dad's fingers tighten on the steering wheel. I can see it because the dashboard lights make his knuckles pale.

"Yes, you do," Dad says.

Paul laughs once, but it is not a happy laugh. "Yeah. Okay."

I look between them.

"Faggots like that—"

"Frank," Mom says quickly. "Please don't use that language in front of Eric."

Dad clears his throat. "Those people are destroying the values of this country. The ones I raised both of you boys on and instilled in you."

Paul turns his head slowly. "Values."

"Yes, Paul," Dad grunts. "Values. Family. The sanctity of marriage. God. You're a Marine. You're supposed to know how wrong it is for two men to carry on that way."

"What does being a Marine have to do with homophobia?"

The word hits the inside of the SUV like a puck off glass.

Homophobia.

I know that word. I know what it means in the basic way. Fear of gay people, or hate of gay people, except phobia is supposed to mean fear and people use it for hate too, which is confusing but also not confusing because fear and hate seem to sit close together in some people.

Mom makes a small sound in the front seat.

Dad's jaw tightens. "Watch your mouth."

"I didn't swear."

"You know what I mean."

"No," Paul says again, and his voice is still too calm. "I don't think I do."

Dad exhales hard. "This is not the time."

"You started it."

"I made a comment."

"You made a comment about children being raised by two fathers like it's something dirty."

"Paul," Mom says, sharper now.

"No." Paul leans forward slightly, his forearms braced on his knees. "No, Mom. You don't get to say things like that and then act offended when someone names what it is."

Dad's voice drops. "Enough."

Paul looks at him. "Why? Because Eric is in the car?"

My body goes still.

Dad glances at me in the rearview mirror, and I hate it. I hate when people look at me like I am a reason to stop talking instead of a person who is already hearing everything.

Paul notices.

"Don't," Paul says.

"Don't what?" Dad asks.

"Don't use him as the reason nobody can say the truth." Paul looks out the window again, toward the lights of the Johnsons' party sliding behind us now. "And don't act like you're better than them because you don't understand them."

Dad's mouth tightens.

Paul keeps going anyway.

"You're always talking about what good neighbors they are and how much money they've brought into the area. They're billionaires, Dad. They've done more for this community than half the people you invite to your block parties, and they're kind."

Dad does not answer.

"Did you know they sent hundreds of pounds of Swiss chocolate to my base for Thanksgiving?" Paul asks. "Kyle Johnson asked me once at the mailbox if the guys ever got decent dessert overseas, and I told him no, not really. I thought he was just making conversation. Then, three weeks later, pallets of it showed up. Hundreds of pounds for the whole base."

The car is too quiet now. Even the music feels like it has moved farther away, and we are not beside the party anymore. We are on our own street, with our own trees and our own lights and our own house getting closer, but the argument is still in the car with us.

"That meant a lot to a lot of guys," Paul says, quieter. "Guys who were homesick. Guys who missed their kids. Guys who hadn't had anything good in weeks. So maybe they don't fit whatever picture you have in your head, but they know more about kindness than most people I've met."

Mom's shoulders are stiff. Dad is driving very carefully now. Paul is staring out the window again, but his jaw is tight, and the muscle near his cheek is jumping.

I do not understand why this party is worse than the block parties Mom and Dad have every summer.

At our block parties, people drink too much wine and laugh too loudly, and Dad's business friends talk about golf and contracts. One time Mr. Langmore fell into the hydrangeas by the pool house. Nobody said the HOA should stop that. Nobody said children would lose their sense of normalcy.

The Johnsons have lights and cupcakes and children.

I look out the back window as we pass.

The little girl with the purple beads is running across the lawn now. One of the boys chases her with a glow stick. The taller Mr. Johnson calls something after them, and the kids slow down before they reach the driveway.

That is a rule.

Families have rules, and they seem like one.

I look at Paul.

He is still staring out the window.

I do not know why he suddenly looks sad.

I do not know why that makes my throat feel tight.

"Paul?" I say.

His eyes move to me.

"Is holding hands lewd?"

Mom says, "Honey."

Dad says, "Eric."

Paul's face changes.

For one second, he looks like I hit him with something and he was not ready for it.

Then he looks away.

"No, kid," he says quietly. "Holding hands is not lewd."

"Then what part was lewd?"

No one answers.

That means there is an answer, but no one wants to say it where I can hear.

I hate that.

Paul reaches over and nudges my knee with his knuckles, light.

"You didn't do anything wrong, kid," he says.

That answers a question I did not ask.

I look at him.

He is still staring out the window, but his hand stays near my knee for another second before he pulls it back.

Mom turns the music up one notch. It is a small change, but everyone understands what she means.

The conversation is over.

I look out the window until the Johnsons' party disappears behind the trees and the matching mailboxes and the long, dark lawns of Greyson Estates.

I still do not understand.

Or maybe I do.

I just do not understand why understanding it makes my stomach feel bad.