Summer nods enthusiastically. “I like planning get-togethers and stuff. It’s kind of my thing. I like hanging out, getting to know people. I had a good feeling, so I invited him to my weekly game night. He’s amazing at trivia.”

“He does like to know things.”

“And before I knew it, we were friends,” Summer says. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like him. You know how it is with guys—they’re nice to you until they get what they want and then they leave. And if you’re lucky enough to find someone decent you’re constantly paranoid someone is going to try to steal him away or that he’ll cheat.”

Joy’s hands twitch, but she keeps her eyes on the road. Summer didn’t pull that paranoid line out of nowhere.

“Dating is so stressful. I hate it. I’d rather just be in a relationship because most guys don’t want to be friends if there aren’t any benefits, and then have the nerve to get all possessive anyway.” Summer turns to her with a conspiratorial expression on her face, as if they’re in on a secret together.

That’s . . . a lot to unpack.

They see things differently, that’s for sure. Joy has no problems making friends with men but she also mostly runs in queer circles, which tend to be a bit more open—and less patriarchal.

Maybe being white, blonde, and small has something to do with it too. It isn’t Summer’s fault that she represents the gold standard or whatever, but the grass obviously isn’t greener. Men must see her and get hit with the atavism stick. SEX! WIFE! BABIES! BAREFOOT IN THE KITCHEN!

Summer continues, words bubbling out of her like a fountain. “Malcolm isn’t like that, you know? He feels so genuine. What you see is exactly how he is. No pretense, no lying, just a genuinely nice person who cares so much. We can talk for hours. Hours! I’ve never done that with a guy before. He honestly cares about what I have to say and how I feel. He really knows how to make me feel special. Like I’m the only person in the whole world who matters to him. I’m probably preaching to the choir. You already know that.”

She’s looking at Joy with the energy of a bird perched and ready to take flight—with more to say but waiting for Joy to jump in. That’s . . . considerate. Joy had assumed she was the kind of person who steamrolled conversations, not caring if the other person joined in or not.

“Malcolm definitely feels like he’s perfect. He isn’t. Even I can admit that. But I get what you’re saying.”