When the machine shuts off, she pours two cups and holds one out to me.

You look like you could use it.

You haven’t heard from James yet? I ask after a couple of mind-numbingly cold sips.

Seriously, Michael. He isn’t going to call me.

I thought you might have tried to reach him.

Well, I did. But of course his parents have that stupid answering machine. Seriously. I wasn’t just going to leave a message again, regardless of how eloquently his mother asked for it. I mean, it’s saved on tape. Forever. And who knows who could be listening in.

I stay at the store until ten, listening to the tinny sixties music coming over the speakers and drinking daiquiri slush.

No one else comes in until just before I leave. Then I’m surprised to see Andy show up wearing his full vigilante getup—red cap and all.

Sorry about James, man, he says. I’m glad we got there in time. You know, otherwise it might have been worse.

Worse. The word makes the freezing liquid climb up the back of my throat.

I know it happens. But I don’t get why anyone would do that? I croak out.

It’s a sport to these guys, Andy says. They go looking for f— Sorry, for guys who are obviously gay.

But seriously, I say, James wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Andy shakes his head and says, Welcome to New York City, Michael. When did that ever matter here?

Connor and Maurice stand at one of the tall tables that have been set up around the store. They’re looking at each other like they’re the only ones in the room.

Maurice is tall. Has dark close-shaved hair, super-intense eyes, and a faint trace of some sort of Midwestern accent. And yeah, Connor is right. He’s hot. And nice, actually. Like genuinely nice and not the least bit condescending when he asks about school and my music. He listens politely when I answer his questions, and he talks about his fashion stuff as if he hasn’t had to answer the same questions twenty times tonight alone.

Next to him, Connor is glowing in a way I haven’t seen before. He’s relaxed, and I try to remember a time, even when we were kids, when he seemed so comfortable in his skin; like maybe he doesn’t feel as if he needs to prove himself twenty-four-seven. He gets us all a round of soda (seriously, my brother is drinking soda!) and leans toward Maurice whenever he speaks.

I owe Connor for the hundred million times he’s embarrassed me in front of someone, but I can’t bring myself to reciprocate. And when Maurice is pulled away to talk to some reporter, Connor actually looks nervous when he asks, So?

I like him, I say honestly. Then, because we’re still brothers and Connor is still Connor, I add, I mean, not sure what he’s doing with you, but…

Surprisingly, Connor’s expression goes serious. I know, he says, rubbing the back of his neck, I know. I’ve fucked up so many things, but this feels like it’s all been worth it. Even getting kicked out.