“Next!” the barista calls out, and I give her my order. When I’ve gotten the food and drinks, I walk back over to Wyatt, handing him an icy cup and a paper bag. “Here.”

He looks up at me. “Hmmm?”

“You should eat something, and if you’re anything like me, you’re going to need coffee today.”

He takes both, his black drink swirling around in the ice. He reads the label and gives me a small smile. “How’d you know I drink iced Americanos?”

“Because you can’t go a single day without one,” I say. Wyatt’s trash can back at the dorm room is filled with these empty plastic cups, and he’s always got a fresh one on his desk, ready to join the pile when it’s empty. “Seriously, is your blood just espresso?”

“I need them; they help with studying,” Wyatt says, biting on the end of the straw.

I stare at his hand wrapped around the cup. “Let me taste it.”

He hands it to me, and I inspect the contents, as if it would’ve changed on the walk here from the Starbucks. It smells like coffee, but I usually never drink my coffee black; I like caramel flavors, especially when they’re just a touch burnt and bitter. I sip the drink and—

“Blegh!”

I could vomit right here.

I like bitter, but the drink absolutely fills my mouth, coating my taste buds in an almost sour kind of bitterness. I swallow, just so I won’t have to get someone to clean the spit-up coffee on the floor.

“That’s the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Pfft, big baby.” Wyatt takes his drink back and sips again. “It’s delicious.”

“I’ll stick with my own, thanks.” I drink a bit of my Frappuccino to get rid of the taste in my mouth, but it still lingers there. “I can’t believe you drink that.”

“Well, I think they’re delicious.”

“Whatever, Fowler.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my AirPods. “Wake me up when they call for Diamond members.”

“Ohh, fancy.”

I scoff, smiling a bit before I lay my head back and turn on one of my easier-going playlists. I don’t actually fall asleep; I’m saving that for the plane. I just want to rest my eyes.

We get seated on the plane an hour later … but I only get a sense of what kind of flier Wyatt is when the flight attendant tells us how to buckle our seat belts, use the flotation devices, and all the normal airplane junk. The plan lurches as it begins to move, and Wyatt goes rigid, grabbing on to my wrist with a grip so tight it feels like he’s going to cut off my circulation. “What was that?” he asks.

“What?”