There’s Styrofoam plates in our laps with meatloaf and applesauce teetering the edges. I feel something sticky on the inside of my wrist and notice some of the sauce has toppled onto it. Before I can wipe it off the dog makes haste and licks it up. My wife drops her fork at the same time and I watch as a small piece of her chin falls off and smacks against the floor.
“It’s okay— Maureen will clean it up.”
My cousin drives a Kia Forte, and I don’t even know what that means. She was born and raised in the suburbs of Pennsylvania, and she was captain of her high school’s debate team. She knows how to roll a blunt (“In theory,” she told me with a wink). Her father owns a bar, and her mother knows Amanda Seyfried. My cousin has been to parties that end with people having their stomachs pumped. My cousin has never had her stomach pumped. She’s going to Yale.
