I could still half-view the porch through the gaps in the iron gate, but as far as I could tell Brougham hadn’t noticed me yet. His attention seemed focused on the house. Just as I went to put my window back up, I made out a woman shouting at the top of her lungs from inside the house, followed by a retort from a man. There was a crashing sound, loud enough for me to hear it all the way over here, and Brougham winced.

All right. Okay. Window back up.

I pulled the hood of my jacket over my head, got out of the car, and hurried down the driveway, ducking to avoid the rain.

Brougham sure as hell noticed me then. “What are you doing here?”

Well, it suddenly seemed a bit rude to say I’d heard his parents screaming at each other from my car and wanted to rescue him. “Ice cream,” I said instead, raising my voice so he could hear me over his father asking his mother exactly how much she’d had to drink.

“Pardon?” Brougham asked.

“Do you want to go grab some ice cream? Sorry, it’s a bit loud.”

He looked at me like I’d sprouted three noses without noticing. “I heard you fine. What I’m not getting is why you’ve randomly appeared on my doorstep during the pouring rain wanting to get ice cream?”

Now that he mentioned it, it probably wasn’t the weather for it. “Coffee?” I suggested weakly.

He looked at me. I looked at him.

Another crash inside, followed by two voices swearing over each other. We both looked at the house-mansion.

Brougham sighed, got to his feet, and pushed past me to walk into the storm. “Fuck it, whatever,” he muttered.

Hey, “Fuck it, whatever” was only a few degrees off of “Hell yeah, let’s do it!” Unless I was mistaken, I was starting to grow on him.

Once we ordered and sat down in the café, a small place with only a few tables, exposed brick walls, and suspended maidenhair ferns spilling foliage, I was overcome by a horrible feeling the roof was about to cave in on us.

The rain had started pelting with even more ferocity than earlier, and honestly, this place didn’t exactly look structurally sound. By the doorway, the ceiling was dripping brown water onto the floor, and the two waitstaff were eyeing it nervously. One of them put a WET FLOOR sign up. A bucket would’ve been better, I felt, but hey, what did I know.

“So, was Finn okay?” I asked, the same moment Brougham burst out with, “I’m sorry you had to hear all that.”