We head inside and find Jack and Dad sitting in the gigantic lobby on a couch talking about baseball, of all things. Like a couple of straight-bros bonding or something. They’re laughing too. Jack is slapping his knee as Dad tells what I can only assume is a sexist joke because all his jokes are. Jack even crosses his legs like Dad, ankle resting on the knee, legs spread apart to show the entire world how utterly massive their balls are. It’s unsettling how quickly Jack slips into this role, and it’s equally unsettling how jealous I am of Jack right now.

Then the thought hits me: Am I attracted to Jack because he’s that traditionally masculine guy? He rows crew, likes to play Frisbee for fun(?), broods over his poetry, and reads a bunch of masc books from dead authors only straight dudes read, and he wears a baseball cap and watches sports. We couldn’t be more in opposition. Part of me is drawn to exactly that: a secure man comfortable enough with himself to know who he is within the binary.

“I don’t know about this Jack guy,” Dad says, eyeing me. “He’s a Red Sox fan. We’re squarely a Yankees family.”

“Are we?” I ask.

“Chase doesn’t like sports,” Dad whisper-yells. “Never liked anything that made ’em sweaty, right, Taters?”

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter under my breath.

Rae smirks at the sweaty comment, and I know her so well, I can hear her thoughts: Chase loves to naked wrestle with boys! That’s a sport! Full-body contact and everything.

I bite my lips back, and so does she.

Dad propels himself off the couch to give me a handshake-hug. “How’s college life, Taters?”

I cringe at that fucking nickname. Not even Rae knows why he calls me that, and I don’t want to think about it because it makes me want to purge. I tug at the bottom of my shirt so it makes my front look flatter.

“You look good, managing to stave off that freshman fifteen.” He smiles like he’s expecting me to laugh, but my jaw clenches. He knows about my eating disorder. Mom told him about it when he came to pick up Taylor and me for one of his weekends, and he had said, “That doesn’t sound like that big a deal. He needed to lose weight anyway.”

So yeah.

“Food’s pretty good, actually,” I say, covering my stomach with my arms.

“Good, good.” He pulls back and opens his arms wide, like this place is his castle and he’s the fucking king. It’s one of those hotels with glass elevators and an internal courtyard that’s open all the way up to the roof. Each floor has balconies overlooking the marble lobby with lush couches and real palm trees they maintain well during winter in New York.