“If the bus ever arrives, I’m going to push you in front of it.”

Valentino surrenders. “I’m kidding. What do you want to know?”

“I mean, so much. I remember thinking that I liked your name.”

“My name? My name is nothing compared to Orion.”

“No, I love your name. You’ve got tons of nickname opportunities. I got O, that’s it. Oh, actually, I also had people calling me ‘Oreo’ in high school. Hated that.”

“That’s bad, but at least you didn’t have to deal with ‘Valentino’s Day’ every Valentine’s Day. I had to ask out my friends’ crushes for them like I was Cupid.”

“I’m so sorry, Cupid.”

“It’s okay, Oreo.”

The bus finally pulls up, and I don’t shove Valentino in front of it. Instead, I take his picture as he pays the fare—the driver is confused as shit as to why this is worth documenting—and another as he chooses one of the few available seats in the middle. There’s no destination in mind, but we thought it’d be fun for him to get some sightseeing in. Maybe call something out if it interests him. Plus we can take a break from the sun and enjoy some air-conditioning.

“Tell me about Valentino, Valentino. How’d the name come about?”

He’s staring out the window. “I never told this to the other kids at school, but my mom was born on Valentine’s Day. She grew up loving the holiday because she was always shown love on that day, whether she had a valentine or not. Then my father went and proposed on Valentine’s Day like the original thinker he is. My mother wanted us to have names with ties to the day. Mine is obvious, and Scarlett because that’s the color of hearts.”

“I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. That’s a horrible origin story.”

“It was going to be worse. Scarlett was almost named Valentina.”

“Valentino and Valentina . . . that’s some psycho shit. It’s almost as bad as them being homophobic. I bet your house was a shitshow on Valentine’s Day.”

“Absolutely. You know how intense some people are about Christmas? Every threshold had streamers, and there were too many bowls of candy hearts all over the house.”

“The ones that taste like chalk?”

“The very same.”

I can’t believe a beautiful name like his has such a dark, dark, dark history.

“Wait . . . When’s your birthday?”

Valentino is shaking his head. “I don’t want to say.”

“Don’t fucking say Valentine’s Day.”

“No. It’s November eleventh.”

“What’s so bad about . . .” I shudder as I do the math. November is nine months after February. “Oh, they—”

Valentino slaps his hand over my mouth. “Don’t.”