I don’t want another ride. I want off. I’m about to shove my way past him when Cullen Henking steps inside. My eyes dart to the phone lying on the bench. Instead of barreling out, I back into the corner seat, concealing the phone behind my leg, and pray it doesn’t ring.

Cullen enters carrying a large bouquet of flowers wrapped in patterned tissue. If I weren’t trying to avoid a panic attack, I’d be disgusted by how much he spent on them.

Gray Fleece Attendant holds out his cell. “Can I snap a quick pic of you guys?”

Cullen puts his arm around me. Before I know it, Gray Fleece Attendant’s taken a picture of Cullen smiling, me gaping. The doors close, the air kicks in, and the car begins to move.

I’m wondering how long I have before Gray Fleece Attendant posts the picture online when a tiny flat screen flickers on, talking about Navy Pier attractions.

Cullen flashes a sympathetic smile and holds out the bouquet. “Hydrangeas and orchids—they’re my mother’s favorites.” He wears a button-down shirt, a sweater, dress pants.

Cullen never talks about his mom, which makes the whole scenario even stranger. From what I hear, she spends half her year in Arizona—without the mayor.

I refuse the flowers. Cullen sets them on the seat.

The back of my throat burns. I reach into my bag for my inhaler. Cullen looks away like I’m doing something obscene as I shake it and take in a blast of medicine. I hold the breath in my mouth until I cough.

“Why are you here?” I ask between coughs. He must have skipped school to follow me here. What exactly did he see me do? I shift my purse so it covers my lap.

“I’m sorry. About Adam.”

A burning sensation ignites behind my nose. I look away. He doesn’t get to be sorry about Adam. He hated Adam. His father murdered him.

I slide my right hand down the side of my leg and tuck the phone beneath my thigh. “I bet you are.”

“We might not have gotten along, but I wouldn’t exactly wish death by hate crime on anyone.”

“Hate crime?” My voice shakes. “Who’s calling it that?” I didn’t even think of how authorities would brush this aside. Dismiss it like typical city violence.

Cullen props his elbows on the blue ledge of the car and looks south along Lake Shore Drive. His house stands out like a gaudy beacon. He shrugs as he says, “Everyone,” like my question is ludicrous. “For the record, I don’t have anything against gay people.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “My dad’s left-wing on all LGBTQ issues. Gender-neutral public restrooms are his latest crusade.”