But I can tell by her tone that it isn’t actually a question. I should really say no since I’m already running late and I might not even be at Van Doren for much longer. But I have always been docile in the presence of authority figures and I really don’t want word to get back to HR. So I nod and follow behind her as she leads the way to her bright corner office with her impossibly large Monstera. I lug her Theory and Zimmermann on the express R train with me, clutching them tight to my chest next to a guy who is aggressively watching hentai on his iPad and quietly masturbating under his dusty backpack with his free hand.

I make it to baggage claim just in time. Nate told me I didn’t have to trek all the way to JFK this time, but it’s been three weeks since we’ve seen each other in the flesh, no screen or satellite signals between us; way too long since I’ve felt his mouth on the darkest, sweetest parts of my body. And after the shitty day I’ve had, I want to soak up every minute I can with him. I wait next to an elderly couple, dressed in his favorite vibe: cropped FIT sweatshirt that I slashed myself slouched over one shoulder, high-waisted cutoffs and the Yeezys he got me for my last birthday. At first, I was on the fence about accepting them, but Nate was adamant about convincing me to separate the man’s politics from his art. I still haven’t quite managed to detangle the two, but they’re hot, so I’ve somehow managed to work out this cognitive dissonance to the point of tolerance.

Just as I glance up from my phone, a slim Asian guy strapped with a heavy Nikon connected to a behemoth lens crashes into me. He’s tall and dressed in a thin, crew-neck sweatshirt and jeans with busted-out knees, his black hair hanging past his shoulders. He apologizes briskly but doesn’t stop moving. He’s rushing to turn on his camera and adjust the overhead light panel. My eyes flick around. Someone’s coming down the escalator and a crowd is forming.

Of course the paparazzi have beat me here. I roll my eyes and look away. Until Nikon guy bumps into me again, down on his knees now, trying to get a better angle of Nate heading through the crowd.

Nate must have spotted me first because he’s already making a beeline for me, head down as he bypasses the guys with their cameras—there’s three of them hovering now—but he slows for a few fans who ask for pictures with him, two girls in crop tops and a little boy with his father, and it’s hard to tell which of the latter two is his biggest fan.