“Watching your figure there?” Not-Joe asks, pointing to my plate with a giant fry he’s snatched from Lola.

“He’s not as young as he used to be,” Harlow says.

And she’s still not looking at me.

Instead she nods to Oliver. “So, how’s the Wonder Woman situation?” she says, grinning while she cuts into her steak. I wanted a steak. “Any improvement?”

Oliver shakes his head and drains the last of his beer. “Don’t ask.”

Ansel, who up until this point has had some part of his face latched onto Mia, suddenly speaks up. “What Wonder Woman situation?”

“Jesus Christ,” Lola says. “Got a little thing for Princess Diana, do you?”

Harlow breaks into giggles and Ansel blushes clear to the tips of his ears. “I... uh...”

“I’ve got to hand it to her,” Harlow says, reaching for an onion ring. “Wonder Woman just keeps proving she’s got it.”

“I’m completely confused,” Mia says.

“That’s because Ansel’s over there trying to suck your soul out through your mouth like some sort of Dementor,” Harlow says, and then whispers in my direction, “It’s a Harry Potter reference, Sunshine. Keep up.”

Oliver explains the situation and if possible, Ansel’s face is even redder.

“I wonder if anyone’s had sex in there,” Lola says, and we all turn to her. “What? I’m just saying, a little voyeuristic rendezvous surrounded by nerd porn?” She offers a small shrug. “I get it.”

“Of course you do,” Harlow deadpans.

“Well, I’m not having sex in that bathroom,” Not-Joe says. “The couch? Maybe.”

“Nobody is having sex in my store!” Oliver shouts, and then almost as an afterthought adds, “And don’t get any ideas, because that includes all of you.”

“Thank God there aren’t any cameras back there,” Not-Joe adds. “Can you even imagine the terrifying things you’d catch on film? The coolest, weirdest people come in there, it would make the sickest reality show.”

I choke on my beer, coughing like I’m losing a lung.

The entire table jumps, arms go flying and cups falling over like dominoes, beer and foam soaking everything in sight.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Mia asks.

I cough again, and feel Harlow’s hand on my back, patting and moving in small circles.

“Pull yourself together, man,” she mumbles, and I nod, reaching for a napkin to wipe off the front of my shirt. “He’s fine,” she tells the rest of the table, “just went down the wrong pipe.”

When I finally get myself together, I sit back, carefully sipping my beer and trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Like a psychopath.