He didn’t look at me when he talked, running a hand over the metal banister that led downstairs. “That’s incredible, Patrice. I liked SUNY Buffalo. It was the right place for me. I wasn’t the best student in high school. I partied a lot and generally didn’t take myself very seriously. It was pretty much a done deal that I would just work for my family’s winery, and I can’t say that I cared too much about my career.”

He laughed, and it was a very tired sound.

“It’s so frivolous to even say it, but I knew I’d never have to worry about money or finding work, so I just sort of coasted. It wasn’t until senior year when I let Cindy convince me to volunteer for the local domestic violence agency. They had a program for high schoolers where we learned to do peer-to-peer outreach. I’d just come out and was figuring myself out—” He closed his eyes, his lips flattening. He waved a hand, dismissing whatever that brought up, and looked at me. “Anyway. That year was life changing for me, I decided I wanted to work helping survivors. Cindy advocated hard for law school and I knew how much she loved her job.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said, more than a little ashamed by all the ways I’d written Easton off. He lifted a shoulder, as if he was used to that, people making assumptions. “You’re a fighter, Easton.”

“I wasn’t struggling with money, believe me.”

Every conversation with Easton drove home more and more that the easygoing, light and breezy rich boy thing Easton had going was either just an act or his way of protecting himself from people and their shitty judgements.

When he spoke again, he sounded more certain. The confidence that I’d gotten used to coming back. “For law school it was the same, I went to the school I got into. I ended up at Fordham Law in the city and honestly, I loved it. Then I came back here to the DA’s office.” He stepped closer to me, as I was still looking for how to respond. With every step he took the need to grab him, pull him to me. Kiss that mouth that seemed to have an uncanny ability to undo me. When he came closer, he didn’t look sad anymore. Just like that, his smile was back.

I wondered what it cost Easton every time he did that. “So is this place worthy of your first post-grad-school home, professor?” The way he looked at me, with hopeful eyes, like he needed me to play along, was enough to disarm me.

“I don’t know, Mr. Archer. Are you going to be a good landlord?”