A few beats later, Conor is looking down at me, and it’s ridiculous. The more I see him, the more I…

“You may, Maya.”

“When you’re back in Austin, don’t tell Eli and Minami that you were here.”

He considers it. Briefly. “I don’t keep secrets from them.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

I prop up on my elbow. “Why?”

“Part of the reason we’re friends is that someone kept secrets from us. And we swore to never do the same.”

“Right. I get it. However. Counterargument.”

His lips twitch. Like he knows I’m about to make him smile. Like he’s learned my beats over the past…Has it been only twenty-four hours? “Let’s hear it.”

I open my mouth to show him my best debate self, and that’s when I’m hit with the realization that the shots of tequila may have been a mistake.

As I vomit in Conor’s pristine bathroom, he holds my hair back and rubs his large palm against my spine.

I wake up several hours later, alone in Conor’s bed.

My last memory is of a comforter being laid out over me, cool fingers against my forehead, and a shushing sound as I insisted that, Fine, I’m fine, I’m all right, not drunk, just sick, stomach bug.

It’s two thirty in the morning, and my brain feels smooth, the fuzziness of the alcohol nothing more than a lingering ache in my temples. When I walk into the living room, Conor is on the phone, wearing sweats and a white T-shirt, deep-register talking about tax filings and liability. I observe him, tired, happy, not yet willing to disturb this moment. A faint memory that must be at least half a decade old floats upward: Minami in our kitchen, sighing. Eli rubbing his eyes and asking, “Should we escalate this to Hark?”

He must be the emergency guy. The one who takes care of the bottom line. And yet, I can tell that the inside of his head is a mess of flying thoughts—most work-related, but by no means all. He keeps that shit locked tight, though. Is that why Minami didn’t marry him?

“—if it’s reviewing the customer and supplier agreements…” He notices me, and instantly says. “Sorry, I have to go. Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He hangs up. His lips curve, amused.

I decide, at this very moment, not to bother being embarrassed about what happened.

“Can I borrow your toothbrush?” I ask.

“By all means,” he says, with that faintly sarcastic undertone that I may be starting to fall for.

“Thanks.” On my way to the bathroom, I make a pit stop in his closet. Ignoring the five identical suits hanging in it, I steal a threadbare Yale T-shirt. Then, as I let the faucet run, I stare at my flushed cheeks, suddenly determined. I discard my jeans and dig a scrunchie out of the pocket, then change my mind on what to do with my hair. A few minutes later, Conor finds me sitting in his bed, wearing my pilfered pj’s. If he’s surprised, it doesn’t show.