The door swings open, and the guy standing in the dark doorway is not what I expected either. He is a little bit taller than I am, although he looks like he could be younger than me. He has shaggy brown hair and wears light-wash jeans with frayed cuffs, a T-shirt that says Brogrammer on it and no shoes. He is also holding a bong.

“Heeeyy,” he says. “Braden, my man.”

Braden laughs as the guy hugs him.

“I’m Brett,” he says.

I reach out my hand, but he shakes his head before hugging me tight and patting my shoulder like we’re old friends. He smells like a concert.

When he finally steps away, he turns to Sara. She stumbles back in surprise at his enthusiastic embrace. “Oh, all right then.” A smile breaks across her stunned face and she laughs, and I can’t tell if it’s out of discomfort or amusement.

We step inside and Brett closes the door behind us. Inside the air is sickly sweet and stale; although plenty of light filters in through the windows, they are all closed.

“So you’ve really taken to California, I see,” Braden says.

“What?” Brett’s brow furrows. He follows Braden’s gaze down to the bong in his hand. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I forgot I was holding that.” He sets the glass object on a tall table lining the hallway. The type of thing you’d usually use to display family pictures or scented candles. “You guys don’t mind the smoke, right? I could open a window.” He looks to Sara, seeming to have just noticed her business-casual attire.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and...” His words fade away, but he keeps walking briskly. We follow him into a living room with a large sectional couch and flat screen TV.

He steps over a coffee table littered with beer bottles, lighters and what seems to be a mason jar of weed, making his way to the back wall where huge sliding glass doors reveal a large patio and pool.

He slides the door open, and then walks over to flip a switch on the wall, sending the ceiling fan spinning.

“Is that better?”

I nod.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Sara says, waving her arm in an awkward gesture. “Whatever you usually do is fine.” She examines the couch, pursing her lips as she brushes off a spot before sitting down as close to the edge as possible. She folds her hands carefully on her lap.

Braden sprawls out on a large armchair, his expensive leather shoes resting on an ottoman of a different shade of expensive leather.

I sit a few feet away from Sara, leaning back against a throw pillow with a stitched image of a Banksy painting on it, but I’m not much more comfortable than she looks.