What good could come from that? And how could I possibly be worth it?

The following morning, it’s fall. Sounds crazy, but that’s the UP. Labor Day passes, and suddenly, it’s straight-up autumn. The leaves are still green, but it’s a matter of weeks before they glitter and fade to the ground.

“It’s officially sweater weather,” Duke says, cheerfully passing me something awesome smelling in a Styrofoam cup. “Lighthouse Gifts is giving away free cider and cookies. Might be my favorite day of the year.”

“Where are the cookies?”

“Sorry,” he says, not meaning it. “Ate ’em on the way in.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t drink all the cider,” I say, taking a hearty sip.

He makes a face and heads to the back of the store to clock in. “I hate cider.”

“How can you hate cider?” I ask, finishing the rest of the cup and tossing it in the trash.

“It’s just hot apple juice, man.”

“It smells like heaven.”

“That’s why I picked it up. Smells good. Tastes like hot apple juice. Be grateful. You’re benefiting from my aversion.”

“Thank you for hating cider. Anyway, you’re early. Meeting’s not for another twenty minutes.”

“David would say if you’re on time, you’re already late.” There’s an edge to Duke’s voice that speaks louder than words. He folds his frame onto a stool and picks up a display of organic goat’s milk lip balm to organize.

“Okay.”

“And furthermore, if you want to make the right impression, you really should stick to muted colors and responsible-looking hairstyles. Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.”

“What exactly is responsible-looking?”

Duke jabs a balm so hard that it bounces off the top of the plastic canister and rolls under the counter. He picks it up with a frustrated grunt, muttering, “The opposite of whatever the hell I look like.”

I retrieve another rogue balm in silence, passing it to him. He mumbles his thanks. This is par for the course. The hair shit, the blouse comments, the professionalism pep talks. What isn’t typical is Duke being bothered by it. At least, not until recently. And not in the “aggressively restocking goat by-products” kind of way.

I really don’t want to get comfortable in the role of therapist, but after a third balm hits the floor, I can’t help asking, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nothing to say,” he says. “I started to tell my parents about my promotion to crew leader, thinking that would be something David might be happy about. Me, supervising a crew of outdoor guides. It’s an accomplishment.”

“Absolutely. Dani didn’t make the choice lightly.”

“Right? But,” he continues, “before I could get the words out, he started in on the teal hair and when was I going to be dyeing it back to normal?”