“It’s okay,” I say, though his words reassure me if there’s one friend I’ve chosen well thus far, it’s Bronte. Amber, too. “Just don’t whip out a fedora or start calling me ‘milady’ and we’re good.” Because I have a type.

That cracks his serious exterior, though his joy fades as he takes in his now-empty tray.

“We’re going to run out of rolls now. I’ll have to explain, and it’ll come out of my wages. Fuck.” He blanches. “Sorry. I mean, damn.”

“I’m not some delicate maiden. You can say ‘fuck’ in front of me. And don’t panic. I’ll vouch for you. It’s my fault, and I’ll take the blame.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“No, I do. I will.” I smooth down my hair and head for the door. But Gabriel grabs my arm—softly but firmly.

“I mean it. You can stay. They’re so drunk they may not even notice. Nobody in there eats carbs anyway, and you don’t want them to know you were crying. Right?”

I round on him. “How did you know I was crying?”

He takes a step back and pointedly assesses. “Red eyes, and I don’t smell weed on you. As a member of the dead-parent squad, I made an assumption.”

I remember how Bronte told me their dad died a few years ago. Of course he gets it.

“You know what helps with random bouts of crying?” Gabriel says. “Ice cream.” Before I can protest, he’s off to the freezer, where he retrieves a giant tub of French vanilla.

“You know this is my house, right?”

“Yes, which is why I’m not stress-sweating about getting fired over this.” In a smooth dance-like move, he spins to the left, pulling open a drawer and plucking out the ice cream scoop. He knows my kitchen better than I do.

I forage for spoons while he grabs bowls, and then we sit side by side at the kitchen island and dig in. French vanilla melts on my tongue.

“It doesn’t stop,” he says, answering a question I never asked. “I’m nearly three years out, and a sappy commercial can get me. Dads helping sons, that sort of thing.”

“Something to look forward to. A lifetime of spontaneous crying.”

“And ice cream.” He cheerses with his spoon. Licks the vanilla off, lets it melt in his mouth. “It does get better, though,” he says after a minute. Then he seems to second-guess himself. “Kind of. You’re a different person, after. Better is relative to who you are now, not who you were. It gets…different. More manageable.”