A decade ago, he’d ended up in this same alleyway behind the dorms shortly after they got back to campus from the summer. It was Frankie’s twenty-first birthday, and the rule among their friends was they couldn’t just drink themselves to oblivion for their twenty-first; they had to come up with a fitting celebration each time. For Gregory’s birthday, they had gone to a Chuck E. Cheese in Pittsfield, followed by a depressing strip bar (he came out a few weeks later, and Ezra wondered if he finally just had enough boob to realize that it wasn’t working for him); April had rented out a room for hers at one of the few haute cuisine restaurants in town (there were only two, and it was understood that these were exclusively reserved for professors or parents who came for a visit) for a very-adult sit-down dinner with a printed menu and wine pairings. All of them had felt a little foolish swirling their glasses and pretending they had any idea what they were doing—who knew a pinot from a Syrah back then?—but they were tipsy soon enough, and it proved hilarious to act like full-blown grown-ups for the evening. Connor, who had a black eye from hockey practice, wore an ascot; April had spoken in a British accent; Gregory had insisted everyone call him James Bond. Ezra had even worn his suit, which his mom had splurged on for his summer internship. Frankie had actually understood all the various ingredients on the menu—squab and ramps and some sort of rare sea urchin that she’d tried once in the city with her father—and had explained each course to them as they were served, like she was the adult in the room. So they were all pretending more than just a little bit.

But he wanted Frankie’s twenty-first to be personal, to be unique in a different way. He wanted it to be just the two of them. She hadn’t quite stabilized from her summer with her mother, but instead of talking about it, she was simply moodier than normal. He knew she was fighting to free an albatross from around her neck, so he tried to let it go. But he didn’t know how to help her, and her refusal to want his help bruised him. Wasn’t that his job? To try? Whenever he suggested that, much like over the summer, she snapped, and then later acted like nothing had ever happened. She never apologized, though that was something Ezra only realized once they’d cratered for good.

Anyway, it was Frankie’s birthday. She’d called him from the Hamptons over the summer and repeatedly lamented that she regretted her choice to spend the summer with her mom.

“I should have gone to Paris,” she said at least twice during every phone call.

Her dad, having lost the beach house in the separation, was in Paris with his new girlfriend, and although Frankie rarely spoke of her relationship with him, Ezra assumed it was less rocky than the one with her mom. Though he also didn’t understand why her relationship with her mom was so tenuous. He’d asked. He’d asked often. Frankie often just tutted and said, “It’s complicated.”