Monday, June 18

  YMPA

  Mission: N/A

  21:05

  “Remember Mageball?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember Mikey?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s one of our teammates in Mageball.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “He likes this girl, and we’re all helping him.”

  Greg stared at me. “Why?”

  “Because we’re teammates, I guess…”

  “Do you know who he likes?”

  “Not… yet…”

  “Yet?”

  I swallowed. “It’s Tess.”

  Greg froze.

  His eyes didn’t waver. His mouth hung slightly open. Then—like his brain was buffering—he rubbed his chin in slow motion, eyes darting to every corner of the diner as if Tess was hiding behind the ketchup bottles.

  “I mean…” he said finally, “it could be worse.”

  I blinked. “Wait—you’re fine with this? I thought you said we should not say anything as much as possible.”

  “We don’t,” Greg replied. “But this shouldn’t shake anything up more than we want. It’s between him and Tess.” He tilted his head. “And since he’s your friend—”

  “Never said that.”

  “Even if he’s not,” Greg continued without missing a beat, “who doesn’t want to help somebody get someone they really like?” He shrugged. “Imagine it actually turns into something real. He’d have a whole group of people to thank.”

  “Yeah… I guess.” I paused, then frowned. “But wait—Mikey’s younger than her.”

  “Is he a freshman agent?” Greg asked.

  “No,” I admitted, “but he’s definitely younger.”

  Greg shrugged. “Happened before.” Then he smirked. “It’s not like it’s you or me. It’s someone else. If he wants a girl who’s got two more years of living than he does, that’s his choice.”

  He leaned closer and—annoyingly gentle—tapped my shoulder.

  “I think you care too much sometimes,” Greg said. “Stop being so conscious all the time.”

  “I’m being considerate.”

  “Considerate?” Greg scoffed. “That’s not your job. You’re so focused on being the image you think everyone wants you to be.”

  “How is this about me?” I asked. “We’re helping Mikey. So I’m helping.”

  Greg didn’t blink. “What do you see yourself as?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Greg, what are you talking about?”

  “Describe yourself,” he said. “What type of person are you? If you wrote yourself on a piece of paper, what words would you use?”

  “Okay, Greg, let’s not do this—”

  “No, no, no,” he cut in. “Answer my question.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “It’s a little late to be doing therapy hour, don’t you think?”

  Greg leaned back against the booth, still staring like he was waiting for a confession.

  I sighed. “Tess is in our class. We help Mikey out. That’s all.”

  Greg pursed his lips.

  Right then the waiter appeared, setting down a burger in front of me: two patties, melted white and yellow cheese, toasted bread, and coleslaw on the side.

  “Strawberry lemonade?” the waiter asked.

  I nodded. Greg nodded too.

  The waiter walked off, and Greg exhaled a huge sigh like he’d been holding it since the cafeteria.

  “Whatever you wish,” he said. “Tell me how it tastes.”

  I stared at the plate. “What is this?”

  “You’ve never heard of a patty melt?” Greg asked, offended on the restaurant’s behalf. “We’ve been coming here forever. I’m sure our ‘Dad’ has been here too.”

  “Yours,” I corrected. “We lived in Utah.”

  “Fair. Fair,” Greg muttered. Then, casually: “Why didn’t you move to Nevada? Not as expensive as California. And you still have Las Vegas.”

  “You try being a cameraman in Nevada and see how far that gets you,” I said.

  Greg chuckled. The waiter returned with two ice-cold lemonades, condensation dripping down the glass. Lemon slices perched on the rims like they were posing.

  Greg mouthed thank you to the waiter.

  “Lots of things happen in Las Vegas,” he said.

  “The job was in California, Greg,” I replied. “It’s not that hard to comprehend.” I paused, then smirked. “Besides, you’d have no friends if I wasn’t here.”

  “Blasphemous,” Greg said, sipping his lemonade. “Even if I didn’t have friends… I still wouldn’t have one now.”

  I widened my eyes. “How does that make any sense—”

  Then it clicked.

  “Okay, you know that’s different,” I snapped. “Stop it. I would be your one friend in that scenario—assuming you have any right now.”

  Greg laughed like I’d delivered a stand-up set. We started eating—though Greg looked way more famished than I did. Every bite he took looked like he was getting swallowed by a whale.

  “I still go to an agency, Connor,” Greg said between bites. “If you have at least a football team worth of friends, what makes you think I don’t?”

  “I do not have a football team worth of friends,” I scoffed. “That’s a lot of people. The only way I’m getting that many is if I told them I have a pending trust fund.”

  Greg shrugged. “You and the others are helping Mikey, right? You don’t really do that for people you don’t know—or people you don’t care about.”

  I sighed. “I care too much, remember?”

  “That ain’t the same thing,” Greg said, then waved a hand like he was surrendering the argument. “Just try the patty melt and tell me how it tastes.”

  I took a bite.

  Paused.

  Looked up at him. Looked down at the burger. Looked back up.

  Greg’s face lit up instantly—excited laugh, glowing eyes, this weird little bounce like he’d just won a bet.

  “See what happens when you try something new?”

  “Yeah,” I chuckled. “I’m just saying—it’s not a bad thing to stick with what works.”

  “You’ll get tired of it eventually,” Greg said, slapping my shoulder a few times. “Options, Connor. Options.”

  “Ow,” I muttered, rubbing the spot.

  Greg leaned back, still somehow not touching his own food, and sighed for what had to be the hundredth time tonight.

  “You don’t need to be afraid all the time,” he said. “Take some risks. Don’t be dumb about it, but… people don’t care as much as you think they do. They’re not living your life.” His voice softened. “Do what’s best for you, bro. If not for you… at least for me.”

  I stared at him. “Are you living my life?”

  “Your lack of esteem pains me,” Greg said, dead serious, “which makes it my problem.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Who doesn’t want to see their twin improve?”

  “You’d be surprised,” I muttered, taking another bite—then glanced at his untouched plate. “You gonna eat that or…?”

  “If you eat this,” Greg warned, “you’re paying the entire bill. I don’t care what little allowance you get.”

  I scoffed. “My stomach couldn’t handle all that. Plus, I don’t like coleslaw.”

  “Should’ve told me earlier.”

  “You never told me you were ordering this.”

  “Fair,” he admitted. Then, naturally, he turned it into a problem. “But I mean… whose fault is that?”

  “Yours.”

  “That’s fair too…” Greg sighed, staring at his meal like it betrayed him. “Don’t tell me that means I have to pay more of the bill.”

  I leaned back, suddenly energized. “I mean… you said it. If I take your plate, I pay the whole bill. You’re technically taking a portion of my meal.”

  “For coleslaw?” Greg gasped. “That’s such a cop-out. For coleslaw.”

  “That you ordered me,” I said. “Why isn’t it the same this time?”

  “Because on one hand, you’re taking my entire plate,” he argued, “and on the other hand, for an average scoop of coleslaw, I’m paying??”

  “I never said you pay for the whole meal,” I replied. “Just the portion of the coleslaw.” I tapped the plate. “It would make sense for you not to pay if you ordered it and I tried it on my own later. But you ordered it, I didn’t want it, and now I’m suffering.”

  Greg stared at me—locked in, unblinking. His pupils looked like they were grumbling.

  Then, without breaking eye contact, he finally grabbed his burger and took a slow, deliberate, artfully aggressive bite.

  “Took you long enough,” I said, grinning.

  “Oh, would you stop,” he hissed, and I laughed as his face cycled through ten different versions of exasperation.

  We ate for a minute.

  Then something clicked in my head.

  “Where’s your camp at?” I asked.

  “I’m eating,” Greg said, muffled.

  I closed my eyes. “Greg. Answer the question. The food is not running away.” I leaned in. “If we’re helping Mikey with Tess, it’s kind of hard when your camp is three cities away.”

  Greg swallowed, then shrugged. “I don’t know. As long as I get to APCC on time, I’m good.” A snicker slipped out. “I would love to slam a volleyball in your face right now, though.”

  I sighed and shook my head.