I blink at the pair of them until my head suddenly realizes that oh-holy-shit-I’m-in-my-underwear-in-the-middle-of-my-kitchen-with-Tucker-Watson. “I’ll be right back,” I say before racing down the hallway to the bathroom.

“Great,” I mutter as I notice the mascara and glitter smeared down my left cheek. Nothing says I have my shit together like waking up at noon with last night’s evidence all over your face. After a quick sink scrub-down and some deodorant on my pits, I piece together actual clothes and take a second shot at my grand entrance.

Tucker is sitting at the kitchen table, twiddling his thumbs, like this is the most normal thing in the world and he’s been at my kitchen table a million morning/afternoons before.

I take my seat just in time for Mom to serve up fresh toast and orange juice. “Thank you, Mommy Dearest.”

She swats me on the head with a dish towel before taking her cup of coffee back into the living room, leaving Tucker and me with a bowl of eggs and a plate of bacon covered with a damp paper towel.

“So, you’re at my house for breakfast,” I venture.

He scoops eggs onto his plate and piles it up with bacon. “Well, not actually for breakfast. More like brunch. But I never turn down breakfast. Even this late in the day. Long night?”

“Uh-uh,” I say, wagging a finger at him. “I ask the questions. What are you doing at my house on a Sunday? Scratch that. What are you doing at my house at all?”

“Your dad asked me to look at your mom’s alternator.”

“Well,” I say with a disappointed huff, “that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

“But I don’t think that’s what you really wanted to ask me,” he says with a smirk as he hunches over his plate like someone might take it.

“So then why don’t you tell me what I really want to ask you?”

He eats a slice of bacon in one bite and washes it down with a swig of orange juice. “You’re wondering if I think Peppa Roni was really the most deserving queen last night or if her win was nepotism.”

“Cut the shit. Why were you at the Hideaway?” I ask.

He leans toward me and rests his chin in the palm of his hand and clears his throat. “It was an all-ages night.” He shrugs. “Sounded like something fun to do on a Saturday night.”

“So are you saying that you’re . . .” After almost two years of fooling around with Lucas behind closed doors and constantly wishing for something more, but knowing deep down that it wasn’t for me to pressure him, I’m not about to put myself in a similar situation with Tucker.

“I’m saying I went to a show at a bar on all-ages night.” He doesn’t say it quietly or loudly. He just says it.