I almost don’t recognize myself. He’s done a great job editing me, changing the light and shadows in the right places to highlight my curves and hide my flaws. And my skin looks radiant... Did he airbrush me?

A perfect place with a perfect girl, the caption below reads. It was posted a few seconds ago but already has forty-two likes. I scroll to the top of his account and gasp.

“You have twenty–two thousand Instagram followers?”

He nods. “Actually it’s twenty-two thousand seven hundred and fifty...nine,” he says, looking up. “Or at least it was this morning. You have to use another app to get the exact amount when you have this many.”

I laugh. “Are you, like, famous or something?”

“Nah.” He brushes this off. “Just popular.”

A repetitive beeping alarm sounds behind us.

“Oh shit.” Braden turns and runs into the house. I follow him into the kitchen, now filled with gray smoke and a burning smell.

Eyes burning, I blink through the smoke to see that a small fire has engulfed the frying pan and half the stove with it.

“What do I do?” I yell over the beeping alarm.

Braden is opening and closing cabinets again, this time aggressively, the door making a snap each time. “I know there’s a fire extinguisher somewhere.”

Oh my god there’s no time, I grab the nearest liquid, my wine, and throw it on the fire.

The flame bursts upward. “Ahhh!” I flinch away.

“Alcohol is flammable,” Braden says through gritted teeth. He steps forward, fire extinguisher now in hand, and doses our dinner with puffy white foam.

When the fire wanes to nothing, he sets it down and turns back to me. “How do you feel about cereal?” he asks. He looks at me with puppy dog eyes, his hair askew and a little bit of black soot on cheek.

“Right now, it’s my favorite food.” I smile.

We pour bowls of sugary cereal and new glasses of wine and head outside to our overdressed table.

“Breakfast for dinner was always my favorite as a kid,” I say, scooping a spoonful that has the perfect ratio of marshmallows and oat pieces.

“Mother would never let one of us do that,” Braden says. “But sometimes our nanny, Marie, would, when my parents were out of town. We’d make pancakes with chocolate chips.” He smiles at the memory. “She knew she might get in trouble if they found out, but she always said kids should get to be kids.” He pauses to take a bite, then says with food in his mouth, “She was like a second mom to me.”