John supposed it wasn’t their fault that they had such expensive taste. Just like it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t. A beach house for a few days on Fire Island? Maybe John could swing that. He’d pay to stay for a weekend or so and maybe commute back and forth one or two other days he could take off of work. That wouldn’t run him more than five hundred dollars total. A wince-worthy sum, but doable in the name of family, he supposed.

But John Whitford Sr. was never going to go for a week on Fire Island. Nope. It just wasn’t his style. John wondered if it even occurred to his father how expensive an ask this vacation was. If he’d even paused in sending out this email, reflecting on how John would feel upon receipt.

Was it even fair to wonder that, though? Because when John had rejected the trust fund from his father, hadn’t he effectively been saying that he wanted his father to stay out of his financial life? Was it fair for John to want it both ways? For him to expect his father to take his money and shove it but also to painstakingly consider John’s finances whenever he wanted a week of vacation with his sons?

John clicked out of the email. This was hurting his brain. And he had Hang Nguyen to think about.

JOHN BLINKED AT the basket of fries that had just been slid underneath his nose. He looked up to see Richie upending a bottle of mustard into one end of the basket.

“I thought you might be hungry.”

John felt some of his crusty mood finally crumble away. He was out with his best friend, who was only trying to cheer him up. There was no reason to scowl into his beer and waste the whole evening.

“Thanks,” John said, swiping a few fries and then pushing the basket between the two of them so that they could share. “You were right, by the way. I’ve been in a bad mood.”

“Are you finally gonna tell me why?”

John twisted his beer in one direction and then the other. “Had a crush on Mary. She just wants to be friends. But I’m taking some time away from her, and that’s helping. I should be over it soon. Sorry I’ve been a dick.”

John looked up at his friend and was surprised to see that Richie had gone sheet white. Very uncharacteristic. “Shit. John. I didn’t know. I should probably tell you that—”

“Hi, guys!”

John froze on his barstool, the two friends exchanging lightning-fast eye contact.

You didn’t, John’s eyes said.

Sorry, dude, Richie’s eyes responded.