“We can still go to my place and get high,” I told them.

“Ugh, he’s hopeless!” Sam said, throwing both arms up in defeat.

*

“Do you guys want something to drink?” I asked, walking over from the living room to the kitchen to fetch a couple of beers.

“Is this a short-haired Thomas?” a smiley Sam asked as she canvassed the dozens of photos on the piano by the window.

“Where?” I threw Adam a beer can and handed Blake one before joining Sam.

“The hot guy in white speedos.” She picked up the frame and turned it so Blake and Adam could see.

I handed her a beer before rolling my eyes at the photo.

“Ooh!” Blake shot up at once, already reaching her hand out so she could take the frame from Sam. “Let me see!”

“That was, like, two years ago, I think,” I said. “I hate that picture.”

“Why?” Blake asked. “Not all guys can pull off white speedos.”

“She’s right; you should be proud,” Sam said, giving me the once-over.

“I was so baked,” I said. “No amount of chlorine can make your eyes get that red.”

“Nice,” Adam said. “Can I put some music on?”

“Knock yourself out,” I said.

“What are we in the mood for?” he asked, walking over to the speaker and connecting his iPhone.

“The 1975,” Blake said.

“How about some Foo Fighters?” Sam suggested.

“Not in this house,” I said, pointing at the door.

They all chuckled.

“That was a test,” Sam said calmly. “Which you passed.” She pretended to bow.

“What’s the last song you listened to today, Thomas?” Blake asked.

“‘Disorder,’” I said. “Joy Division.”

“A man after my own heart.” Adam said, searching for the song.

We all sat around the living room, sharing a blunt and listening to Ian Curtis for the better part of three hours. Eventually, we ordered a pizza, which we finished in about two minutes, and I can safely say that afternoon was the first time in a long time I’d actually had fun and didn’t overthink every aspect in hopes of finding the many different ways I was to blame for potentially ruining a good thing. It was fun. I had fun—with actual friends, no less.

*

When Noah came downstairs, I was listening to Sam play Debussy’s Arabesque No. 1 on the piano, while Adam and Blake made out on the couch.

“Hello,” Noah said awkwardly after clearing his throat.

We all turned to him, but Sam kept on playing, which only made me admire her more. Not everyone could play Debussy that well, while stoned out of their minds.

“Hey! Guys, this is Noah. Noah, the guys.” I gestured broadly.

Two things were always dead giveaways when I got high: I moved my hands a lot, and I repeatedly licked my lips—for some reason, I always felt as though I was drooling.