Elodie scrambles out of his arms and gives him a look designed to make her uncle spontaneously combust.

“Technically,” I correct him again, “she didn’t—”

“Non!” Elodie shrieks, fingers in her ears. “I do not want to know more! Merde! This is bad enough. It’s been so bad I called Maman for advice!”

When my kids mix French with their English, I know they’re upset.

When Elodie tells me she called my ex-wife to talk about my sex life, I know I’m upset.

“You what?”

“I didn’t tell her why you hate me, Daddy!” Elodie says with great drama, including wide, sweeping hand gestures that remind me of Joan Crawford’s overacting.

Charlie gives me a look that says, This is your kid.

Yeah. It is.

And Chloe wants one of these?

“Please tell Chloe I am so sorry,” Elodie begs.

Charlie eyes freeze on me.

“Chloe? Your lover’s name is Chloe?”

“Ewww, Uncle Charlie! Don’t call Chloe Daddy’s lover. She’s just a one-night stand.” She gives me a hopeful look. “Right? Because if you’re seriously dating her I am going to curl into a tiny ball of horror and just die right here on the couch, because it would be soooooo embarrassing to ever have to face her.”

“Chloe what?” Charlie asks, his eyes slanting with a slow, taunting grin.

“Just Chloe,” I answer.

“What’s her last name, Nick? You know I dated a Chloe in high school. There aren’t that many in Boston.” His smile broadens and my fingers curl into my palms. Can’t hit my own brother.

Not okay.

“She was fine. Better than fine. A little wild and crazy, and she had this thing she did with her tongue that—”

“STOP!”

Being six years older than Charlie has its perks, chief among them that my angry voice has been programmed in him since birth.

“It’s the same Chloe.”

Elodie’s eyes widen. She looks just enough like Zooey Deschanel that I do a double take.

“Wow. You look just like Katy Perry when you stare at your dad with that look of extreme shock,” Charlie tells Elodie. He gives her a weird grin before looking at me. “Chloe Browne?”

“Right.”

“You’re sleeping with my ex.”

“I’m sleeping with an extraordinary thirty-five-year-old professional woman who likes my company as well.”

We stare at each other.

“This isn’t awkward at all,” Elodie says.

In French.

“C’mon. Not fair. I regret picking Spanish in high school,” Charlie whines. “If I’d have known you’d marry a Parisian, I’d have picked French.”

“If I’d have known how wonderful Chloe was, I’d have dated her in high school before you could.”

“She was fifteen. You were twenty-one and about to have the twins. That’s kind of sick, Nick.”

“Daddy!” Elodie gasps.

I fold my arms across my shoulders, puffing out my chest. “You know what I mean.”

Charlie digests this information by drinking an entire beer in one long ribbon of swallows, then holding up a finger.

Elodie starts clapping in anticipation.

And Charlie burps like a dog with indigestion.

And not a dog who has access to a bong.

“I can see how that was funny when you were little, El, but come on. Charlie was a teenager then. Now he’s just a thirty-something man with a Peter Pan complex.”

Charlie grins. “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Depends on your point of view,” he says with a nonchalant shrug that triggers unexpected fury in me. Must be nice to slack your way through life.

I’m about to say as much when I’m interrupted.

“I’msorryDaddyIshouldneverhavecalledChloe’sphoneandcaughtyouhavingsexandthatwaswrongpleasedon’thateme,” Elodie says in one long, unfurling ribbon of panicky blabber.

Charlie’s eyes narrow. He ignores the firehose of contrition pouring our of his niece. “You and Chloe. No way. She’s way too carefree for you.”

“I don’t hate you,” I say to Elodie.

The relief on her face is palpable.

“And what the hell do you mean by that?” I ask Charlie, going into full-on older brother domineering mode.

“Daddy, I think he means you—”

Charlie holds up a palm, aimed at her. “I can speak for myself. What I mean is...” He falters, frowning. “I mean that the Chloe I slept with—”

“Ew!” Elodie squeals. “You shared Chloe?”

We’ve gone from dangerous territory right into full-blown toxic soup. The is the Chernobyl of family conversations.

“Not at the same time,” Charlie helpfully clarifies. “Twenty years apart.”

“I don’t understand,” Elodie gasps. “What does he mean, Daddy?”

“I need an interpreter too, honey.”

Charlie takes a deep, irritated breath. “Chloe needs a guy who’s passionate and impulsive. Romantic and wild. She needs a guy who—”

“—who likes to use a strap-on,” Elodie elaborates.

I drop my empty beer bottle. It crashes to the floor, cracking unevenly, pieces skittering along the kitchen floor like they’re desperately trying to escape.

Charlie’s face twists with horror. “Elodie! How do you know what a—what that—what?”

“STOP!” I shout, closing my eyes. “WE ARE NOT DOING THIS AGAIN.”

“Again?’ Charlie’s voice shoots up an octave. “You’ve had previous conversations with your daughter about strap—” He can’t look at her. “About—that? Those?”

“No.”

“Then I am very confused.”

“Now you know what it’s like to have a conversation with you, Charlie.”

“Hey, man. I talk about dog bongs. Not—”

Elodie bends at the same time I drop down, both of us carefully picking up the larger pieces of green glass among the broken bits.

“Dog bongs? That’s a thing?” Elodie asks.

I groan. “Please stop. Stop now. For the sake of the remaining brain cells I have left that aren’t waving a white flag of surrender, let’s reboot this entire conversation.”