“I’m sure I took at least one decent shot,” he says, shrugging a shoulder and lifting some noodles with a pair of chopsticks. “Memory is probably the best prompt so far. And I think the cemetery location will subvert expectations, while still fitting the theme. We’ll be fine.”

He refers to us as a we. As if we’re a team.

The words a show for two echo in my head once again.

“I just thought a graveyard would be chock-full of memories,” I say, toying with a piece of broccoli.

Emmitt nods. It’s golden hour, and he glows in the sunlight. The curve of his nose, the line of his jaw, the flutter of his lashes. “I don’t remember a lot about my dad, but when I visit his grave, I can still feel the weight of the memories we did share together. The stories he used to tell. The smell of his cologne. A smile, a laugh. Warmth and kindness. That kind of stuff.”

“You must miss him a lot,” I say softly.

“I do,” Emmitt says, sighing. “One of the last trips we took before he died was to visit Spain for the first time, and he took me to the beach and taught me how to swim. He told me he would buy me all the tapas in the world if I made it farther than ten feet by myself.”

I give him a curious look. “Did you?”

A faint smile touches Emmitt’s lips. “Of course. Anything for fresh tapas.”

My eyes trace his features again. He doesn’t look sad, but there is a wistful quality to him. “How old were you when he passed away?”

“Six,” Emmitt says, his eyes focused on his food again. “You know, I thought about taking Spanish when I came to AAAS, since I never got to pick it up from my dad, but since Grant takes Italian, I didn’t really have a choice in my language elective.”

I frown. “Maybe you could switch? I’m sure the school faculty would understand. It’s not like you’re really being graded while you’re here.”

Emmitt shakes his head. “It’s okay. Maybe I’ll download Duolingo or something. Have the owl yell at me until I finally pick up Spanish. Connect with my roots somehow.”

“Yelling does seem to work pretty effectively with you,” I tease lightly, but lower my gaze from his. “I know our situations aren’t the same, but... I also feel disconnected from my roots. From my culture. I know it’s a part of me, but some days, it doesn’t feel that way. Me and my parents don’t really get along, so I feel like there’s so much I’m missing out on. I just don’t feel like...enough.”

Emmitt furrows his brows, his expression growing serious. “You know that’s not your fault, right?”