“Oh my God, relax,” I say, pushing him away from me with one hand. “I’m pretty sure they have homeless people in London, too.”

I stroll down the pathway, and Emmitt follows me after a moment, far too close for comfort. I consider reaching out to push him away again, but it’s too much effort.

When we get to the turnstiles, I pause. “I’m assuming you don’t have a MetroCard.”

“I didn’t realize I’d be needing one,” he says under his breath.

I press my lips together and walk over to one of the machines. If he does it himself, we’re going to be standing here all day. “Come on, then. Do you have cash on you?”

Emmitt nods, taking out his wallet after looking around suspiciously. I roll my eyes and take the twenty-dollar bill from his outstretched hand, then quickly click through the options for a regular MetroCard. He watches over my shoulder, eyes tracking my movements.

I insert the bill and wait for the machine to spit out a card. When it does, I offer it to him, then make my way back to the turnstiles and swipe my student MetroCard.

It takes him approximately four tries to swipe correctly. Everyone that passes through gives him a pitying glance, opting for a different turnstile instead of waiting for him to get it right.

I sigh and resist the urge to reach over and do it myself. The last time I had to deal with this was when my cousins from Canada came to visit three years ago, and I relegated most of those duties to Anam. I merely stepped to the side and glared at my parents for dragging me along on a ridiculous tourist venture.

Since then, Anam has grown to become uncannily like me when it comes to dealing with our parents’ demands. I fear if our cousins ever visited again, they’d be getting the cold shoulder from both of us, not for any fault of their own, but rather because Anam and I would refuse on principle, to inconvenience Ma and Baba.

Offhandedly, I wish I could pass off my Emmitt duties to someone else, too, but life isn’t quite that simple.

When he finally swipes through, he grins at me. For a moment, I’m thrown by the brightness of his smile.

I’ve seen it in movies but never in person. I always thought Emmitt Ramos, for all his personal flaws, had a really nice smile.

I didn’t know it was far more beautiful in person. The blinding sight of it enrages me beyond reason. I can’t even stand to look at him.

My face feels like it’s on fire, so I pointedly turn away.

“Come on, let’s go,” I say, the words half-strangled. “We have to get on the platform.”