I looked down at the table, my thoughts churning. This was what Kat had said during our fight, what Matty had implied in the lobby. I couldn’t dismiss it—because deep down I knew it was true. I’d known for a while now that the easiest way to get my dad’s attention was to bring up Northwestern, talk to him about going to law school after college, same as him. And then I’d said it enough that it had started to feel true. But was it? Was any of that what I actually wanted?

And why was this the first time I was really asking myself this?

“Well,” I finally said, “maybe we can just get the moderately expensive things?”

Beckett laughed and it felt like the air cleared a little, that things became not quite so serious, at least for a little while. “Sounds good.”

But my thoughts were still racing, and circling around what, until now, I hadn’t wanted to face. But I’d known it was there. It was there every time Kat made an offhand remark about how I should think about doing theater in college, and in the expression on Matty’s face tonight when I told him about the internship. I could see it with my mother’s frustration that I seemed so locked in. It wasn’t new. What was new was that I didn’t think I’d be able to deny it any longer.

“Okay!” Todd said, hustling up, carrying two drinks. He set an iced tea with lemon and mint, paper straw, in front of me. I’d expected to see something similar for Beckett, just with cherries instead of a lemon wedge. But instead, he set a martini glass in front of Beckett. It was filled with a dark orange liquid, and there was a twist of orange and a cherry stabbed through with a stick and resting across the top. “Here are your drinks,” Todd said. “Iced tea and, um, Roy… Are you ready to order?” He looked at our table and seemed to deflate even more. “Menus. Right. Be back in a jiff.” He hurried off, and I could hear him mutter under his breath, “Get it together, Todd!”

“What is that?” I asked, picking up my glass and taking a drink.

“Maybe this is how they make them here?” Beckett asked, picking up his martini glass carefully, with both hands. “They’re usually not this color, though.…” He took a big drink, then coughed. “Not a Roy Rogers,” he said, shaking his head, sounding hoarse. “Like, that is extremely alcoholic. And—not very good.”

“What?” I asked, reaching for it and taking a sip. I immediately gagged. “Ugh,” I said, pushing it back toward him and taking a long sip of my iced tea as a chaser. “Is that scotch?”

Beckett shrugged. “I don’t know—maybe?”