“Bryant Park,” he says by way of explanation as we arrive up against a giant, chest-high, gray stone balustrade lining the far end of this little green oasis. The ledge along the top is wide enough to sit on, but definitely not what anyone would define as easily accessible. He places our sandwiches on the ledge and hops up next to them.

“Way to help the lady breach the wall,” I tell him.

“I knew you’d want to handle it yourself,” he says.

I grin at him for a moment before bracing my arms against the ledge and popping up next to him. Zarar hands me my grilled meatball parm, and I pull my legs up pretzel style so I can shift sideways to face him.

He picks up what’s essentially a grilled macaroni and cheese sandwich, takes a bite, and closes his eyes, savoring it.

I arch the eyebrow under my scar. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but it does have a weird stretched prickly sensation. “That good, huh?”

He nods and swallows. “That good. Your scar is starting to look badass,” Zarar says. I touch it self-consciously. It’s been super weird not being able to see it myself. “It looks great on you.”

I swallow, feeling that compliment unusually hard. Who the hell compliments a face scar?

I take a bite of my own specialty grilled cheese. Z watches expectantly. I try not to laugh at his expression while I chew and weigh the taste. “It’s pretty damn good.”

He nods happily. “So, is your set super dark like your sense of humor?” he asks, prepping his overflowing sandwich for another bite.

“Who says my sense of humor is dark?”

“Plan Parent Confrontation Trap.”

I glance up at the sky thoughtfully. “Huh, touché.”

I watch him take another bite of the Grilleroni. It sparks a memory. “Hey, my mom used to make us a weird grilled cheese sandwich like that … with like, brie-based macaroni and cheese and apple slices on bread. It was my favorite. Dang, it was so good. And so weird.”

The side of his mouth kicks up. “You should do your set for me right now.”

I chew a second bite of meatball parm grilled cheese. “I mean, first we’re going to workshop it.”

“This is how we workshop it—you perform it.”

I make a pfft noise, and set down my sandwich. “We’re in a park. I can’t do it here.”

“Why not?”

I laugh. “Z, I don’t think you’re really comprehending the scope of the humiliation I experienced the last time I performed this set. I threw up on stage.”

He cough-laughs again.

Not gonna lie, it’s really satisfying hearing him laugh, even if it’s at my expense.

“Why is that so funny to you?” I demand.

His eyes widen. “I really couldn’t tell you. It’s just funny.”

“It’s really not funny,” I tell him.