He begrudgingly changed into some of his nicer Sunday dinner clothes: black slacks and a blue button-down shirt. He completed the look by putting on a pair of shiny brogues his father had given him last Christmas. He even slicked his hair back with pomade. He checked himself out in the mirror and was pleasantly surprised. He looked downright dapper. Satisfied, he returned to the living room and flopped onto the couch. He pretended to flip through channels, but he had an ear cocked the whole time.

Just before six, a knock rattled his flimsy front door. He crossed the room in an instant and yanked it open.

“Wow,” said a petite woman with large, brown eyes. Her hand was still poised to knock. “That was fast.”

“Bianca,” Zack said with a smile. He bent down to hug her, burying his face in her soft brown hair. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Like I’d let my little brother take the bus.” She beamed at him. She looked more polished than he remembered, possibly due to the string of pearls around her neck and her conservative, beige dress. He felt about twelve years old in comparison. “How have you been?”

Zack shrugged. “Same old, same old.”

“Come on, my car’s over there. Let’s go before someone steals my tires.”

He grabbed the wine, locked his front door, and followed Bianca to a blue Honda Civic parked by the curb. Sometimes he thought the differences between their personalities could be summed up in their choice of cars.

They climbed in and began the forty-minute drive to the suburban outskirts of Los Angeles. Zack watched as derelict restaurants and abandoned shops morphed into parks and neat houses with children playing in the front yards. Their old neighborhood never seemed to change, no matter how many years passed.

“So, are you excited to see everyone?” Bianca asked, breaking Zack from his reverie.

“You mean am I excited to get ganged up on?”

Bianca grimaced. “Did Dad warn you? Ugh, I should’ve known. Not for nothing, but I hope you meditated or did some deep breathing this morning. You’re pretty much in for the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

She smacked him on the shoulder, and Zack laughed. “Look, I can handle Mom. She’s been pestering me to become a respectable member of society for years now. I’m used to it.”

“Fat chance that’ll ever happen.” She glanced at him. “Are you still, uh . . . you know?”

“Still a sex worker? Yes. Feel free to clutch your pearls if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Hey, I’m not judging, I swear. I just think Mom may have a point. You need to get a real job.”

Zack narrowed his eyes. “I do have a real job. Just because I’m in the sex industry doesn’t mean—”

“—that your job isn’t a perfectly legitimate and satisfying occupation,” Bianca finished in a monotone. “Yes, I know. You’ve told me. Many times. ‘Sex workers are people too, and it’s the oldest occupation there is, and blah blah blah.’ Like I said, I’m not judging.”