Not just so he can experience it, but because I haven’t had it in months and I’m going through withdrawal. The red-and-yellow interiors almost feel like home when we walk through the door.

Which is super dorky, yes. But I don’t care.

I guide Wyatt through the menu, forcing him to order everything Animal Style, and wait impatiently as he takes his first bite.

“Well?”

I watch him chew.

“It’s … fine.”

“Fine?”

“It’s a burger.”

“You can’t just say it’s fine! What do you mean it’s fine?”

“That it’s fine!”

“It’s In-N-Out. It’s not just fine.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. It’s fine!”

I’m not proud to admit that I spend the next ten minutes explaining how superior In-N-Out burgers are, beating out Wendy’s, McDonald’s, and Five Guys by miles. But Wyatt doesn’t relent; he actually has the gall to tell me he prefers Shake Shack. A lost cause.

After that little moment, we head back to the hotel for some rest after walking around so much. We’re barely in the hotel room for twenty minutes before there’s a rapid knocking on the door. Wyatt’s in the shower, and I’m flipping through the Netflix app on the TV, still bitter about what Wyatt said about In-N-Out while also definitely not thinking about him in that suit at the same time.

The knocking is fast and panicked, so I shoot up off the couch and race to unlock the door. When I open it, Mom is standing there.

Note to self: Always check the peephole.

“You’re here; good. I was worried you might be out with your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, we just got back. I wanted to show Wyatt some of the city.”

“Did you get your suits?”

“Yes, ma’am. They’ll be delivered tonight.”

“Good.” She looks over my outfit, confused. “Aren’t you getting dressed?”

“Dressed?”

I changed into my favorite white Gucci T-shirt and Fendi sweatpants the second we got back to the room.

“Well, you can’t wear sweatpants to Gordon’s, Neil.”

“Gordon’s? We’re not going to Gordon’s.”

“That’s where Michael is having his bachelor party.”

“We weren’t … we weren’t going to go to that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because we’re sixteen. We can’t drink.”

“It’s a steakhouse, Neil. You don’t have to be twenty-one to go in.”

“But we weren’t invited,” I tell her.

She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Of course you’re invited—you’re a groomsman. Besides, Michael and his friends will need a designated driver for the night.”

“I don’t even have my license!”

That’s when Wyatt chooses exactly the wrong time to walk out of the bedroom, his sweatpants on, still using a towel to dry his hair.