“That he is.” Salem crosses his arms behind his head and leans against the wall. “Now, can we get back to your wanting to give me a makeover? Or actually, maybe we should never, ever get back to that.”

“It’s not a makeover. This is going to be your first time doing an actual social thing. I’m just helping you present yourself decently to the world. This is why you have me. I’m gonna clean you up, hook you up with the hot girls, and impress your parents so hard they’ll lose their minds.”

Do I know how I’m going to do any of that? I do not. But up until my friends betrayed me and I had a little breakdown, I was excellent at parent-pleasing. Craig’s parents certainly loved me. I wonder how they feel about seeing my sister slip into my shoes.

Or maybe they never had to see it, because she probably dropped him as soon as I left and the game stopped being fun.

“And how exactly does this fit into your reign of terror?” he asks as I hop up and start digging through his closet, pushing aside flannel after grungy hoodie after flannel.

“We’ll get to that,” I promise, “but right now, we’re focusing on you. And you can’t pretend you have no vested interest in learning how to become a chick magnet.”

“Did you just—”

“I’ll use whatever terminology I want to use,” I say, cutting him off. “And if you think I haven’t noticed you checking out a certain long-legged redhead, you are dead wrong.”

There’s no smart-ass response, which I take to mean I’ve hit the right nerve. And, almost simultaneously, I hit the right shirt. “Here,” I say, sliding the black button-up off the hanger and tossing it in his direction. “It appears to be your only shirt that doesn’t have a band logo on it.”

“You know I packed that shirt strictly for Parents’ Weekend, right?” He throws it back at me. “I’m not wearing that to watch a shitty rom-com in a room reeking of fake butter.”

We compromise on a zip-up hoodie that looks slightly nicer than the others and a pair of well-worn jeans. Then he kicks me out so he can get dressed, and I tell him to pick me up from my room.

“You do not need me to pick you up,” he says, already sounding tired. “This isn’t an actual date.”