A car horn beeps at the corner, reminding me to breathe. That I should move. Get the fuck out of there before Richie sees me standing here like a creep. Before this can get awkward.

But then, our eyes meet.

Fuck.

I try to avert them, but I'm not quick enough.

Retreat! The word screams in my mind. But again, not quick enough.

"Dylan?" He blinks, confused. Then waves at me, a smile spreading across his lips. Not quite showing his dimple, but almost.

Deep breath. Plaster on the biggest smile I can muster. I wave back. Then look both ways and jay walk. "Hey, D-dude" I say, stopping myself from calling him Dick in public. "What's up?"

I could slap myself. Like, seriously? What is wrong with me?

Richie's expression turns quizzical, and I think he's about to ask me if I've become a pod-person or something, but then with a subtle shake of his head, his expression clears. "Nothing much. Was just gonna try this chocolate-covered banana thing. Looks good. Healthy." He nods at the food truck.

"Oh, I've never had one of those," I say. Even though I probably have. But a boring version from a grocery store, nothing that looks this trendy-gourmet. "Looks good."

I catch myself lowering my voice. Sticking out my chest. Going to my default of performing heterosexual masculinity. But not for Richie. For the guy he hasn't introduced me to yet.

Nothing suspicious about that.

So, when it's clear he's not going to, I stick out my hand, elbow still at my side, fingers together, thumb splayed. "I'm Dylan, by the way."

"Oh, nice to meet you," the guy shakes my hand. Firm, but not tight. "I'm Josh."

I want to ask how they know each other. Are they fucking? Is this the morning after? Would Angie have told me if Richie had had a guy over? She would have, right?

But before I can get the question out, they've reached the front of the line. "What can I get you?" the guy in the truck asks.

Josh orders first, then pays for himself, gets his banana, then steps to the side. Richie, up next, orders the same thing—chocolate with nuts—then looks at me, "Want one?"

"Oh," I say, "No, that's cool. But thanks."

Richie trades a few bills for his frozen treat and he steps back over to Josh, me following. But before anyone can speak, my phone buzzes in my pocket. The timing is so perfect it almost feels like divine intervention.

Or sabotage.

I pull it out. I have two texts.

TODD: Any chance you can come in early?

TODD: Sydney called out and I am suffering.

Despite myself, I snort.

"Everything okay?" Richie asks.

I glance up. He's looking at me. Actually looking at me with those gorgeous brown eyes, a lock of dark hair curling perfectly over one eyebrow. Not through a screen. Not reacting with a thumbs-up emoji. Just standing there waiting for an answer.

This was supposed to be my moment. The whole bus ride over here I'd been rehearsing speeches. Grand declarations. Thoughtful apologies. Instead, I've spent five minutes acting like a malfunctioning robot while trying to figure out who this Josh guy is.

"Work," I say. "My boss is being dramatic."

"Fair."

I shove my phone back into my pocket.

The silence that follows feels strangely fragile. Like there's something I should say. Like explain why I crossed half the city on a Sunday morning. But this Josh guy is standing right there, a dot of melted chocolate on his chin, and I know I can't say anything right now.

So, instead of confessing or apologizing or really saying anything significant, I hear myself say, "I should probably get going." The words are out before I can stop them.

For a second something flickers across Richie's face. Surprise? Disappointment? Maybe I'm imagining it.

"Oh." He shifts his weight. "Okay."

Okay.

That's all.

A week ago we were eating cereal naked in my kitchen. And now... nothing. Not that I was expecting some dramatic declaration or a deep French kiss in front of a food truck. But something tangible would've been nice. A question. An excuse to stay. Some sign that I wasn't the only one who wanted this.

Instead, all I got was an okay.

"Good meeting you," Josh says.

"You too," I answer on reflex.

It isn't until I'm halfway down the block that I realize I never actually found out who Josh is. Which would've been useful information to have before I spent the next thirty minutes catastrophizing. Because that's the only thought that follows me as I walk to the bus station, wait for the bus, and then board.

The whole ride to work is torture. I replay every second of the conversation. He waved to me. He smiled. Did that mean he was happy to see me, or just polite? And I also wonder who Josh is. The playful shoulder push. The way Richie didn't introduce him. But also, they paid for their own food truck snacks. That had to mean it wasn't a date, right? By the time I reach my stop, I've somehow convinced myself that Josh is either Richie's future husband or a random neighbor. There is absolutely no evidence supporting either theory.

My phone stays stubbornly silent. No text from Richie. No explanation. No anything.

By the time I get off the bus and walk through the store's lobby, the mid-morning rush is already starting to build.

Todd is calling out orders, his smile visibly forced. "There you are," he says through his teeth.

I blink. "You literally asked me to come in early. And I'm early."

"I have an oat milk latte with an extra shot for Jean!" he calls out, then his eyes glance at me. "Yeah, I texted you thirty-four minutes ago."

I shrug. "The bus."

A bespeckled woman with a tight perm walks up to the counter and grabs the drink.

"Thank you, come again!" Todd does his best impression of a happy employee. Then he stares at me. "You live like three blocks away."

"Look, man, I wasn't at home when you texted."

"Why?"

I open my mouth. Then close it again. Because explaining why I took a bus to the opposite side of the city before work feels like more effort than blending a thousand fraps.

Todd narrows his eyes.

"I'm gonna go clock in. Orders are piling up." I nod at his station, shake my head, then walk into the back. If any of us were as bad at working the floor as Todd is, we'd be fired.

I change into a polo, throw on an apron, and clock in. I do not check my phone. Do not think about my little field trip this morning. And I definitely do not think about Richie.

Then, with a deep breath, I push back through the swinging doors that lead to the floor.

"Okay, scoot over," I tell Todd as I step up to the pick up station, and he happily shifts over to restocking duty.

It's business as usual for the first fifteen minutes or so. The grinder hums. Steam hisses from the espresso machine. And I settle into the familiar rhythm of calling orders and making the occasional drink.

Then an entire middle-school girls' soccer team storms through the front doors. The lobby fills with noise almost instantly. Cleats squeak across the tile floor. Girls in matching jerseys crowd around the pastry case. Moms form a line that snakes halfway to the door.

Todd takes one look at the crowd and mutters, "Well, shit."

A second later he's back at the pickup counter while I shift over to the espresso machine.

This shouldn't be a big deal. We've dealt with rushes like this dozens of times. Hundreds.

Unfortunately, my brain is still a few miles away standing beside a food truck.

The first mistake happens when a customer orders an iced vanilla latte and I make a hot one.

Todd catches it before it leaves the espresso machine.

"Dylan."

I look over.

Todd points at the steaming mug sitting on the counter. Then at the cup beside it clearly labeled ICED in thick black marker.

"...that's not iced."

"Nope."

I stare at it for a second.

"Okay."

The second mistake happens when I start making a cappuccino and forget to pull the espresso shot first.

The third happens when I grab whole milk instead of skim.

And honestly, there were probably other mistakes that slipped through unnoticed. An extra pump of vanilla here. Not enough caramel there. Hopefully I didn't accidentally use decaf at any point. Or give dairy to a vegan.

The rush eventually dies down. The lobby empties. The noise fades.

By then Todd has stopped pretending not to notice. "Dude." He shakes his head at me as I wipe down the counter.

"What?"

"You've made more mistakes in the last hour than you normally make in a month."

"That's not true."

Todd narrows his eyes. "You gonna tell me what's going on?"

"Nothing's going on."

"Dylan."

"Nothing's going on," I repeat, trying not to sound annoyed.

He stares at me for another second. "Back. Now," he orders as he points his thumb at the double doors.

I sigh and toss the rag into the sink. "Listen, I'm sorry," I mutter as I follow him.

I'm still twice as fast at making drinks than he is on my worst day as he is on his best, but whatever. I'll nod, apologize, then get back on the floor.

"Did you and tapas girl get into a fight?"

I blink. "Tapas girl?"

"Yeah." He waves a hand. "The hottie from the gym. Can't remember her name."

"Oh." I shake my head. "No. Nothing like that."

His eyebrows rise. "You still seeing her?"

"No."

"Then who is she?"

I stare at him. "I'm sorry, what?"

Todd points at me. "I'm no doctor, but I know lovesick when I see it."

My stomach immediately tightens. "There's no she," I say, which somehow doesn't actually deny anything.

Todd's eyes narrow at me. Then immediately widen. "Oh my god," Todd says with a chuckle. "That hot guy who came in a few weeks ago and slipped you his number. It's him, isn't it?"

"I—" I don't even know what to say. My knee-jerk response is to tell him I'm not gay. Because I'm not. Maybe bi, but definitely not gay.

And then another thought follows so quickly it almost makes me sick. For some reason, having Todd think I'm gay makes me feel like he'll think I'm less of a man.

Which is ridiculous.

Todd has never said anything remotely transphobic. Half his friends are queer. The guy practically treats Pride Month like a national holiday. I shouldn't even be thinking it. And yet that's exactly where my mind goes.

Todd is oblivious to my lack of response. "He was hot. Shit, I was checking him out, and I'm like a 1 on the Kinsey scale."

I cough. Can feel my ears turning crimson. "Are you done?"

Todd laughs. "Aw man, that's adorable." He shakes his head. "And honestly, I'm so fucking jealous. Two more females blocked me on Tinder. Maybe I need to broaden my horizons."

And then, like that, he turns and walks away.

Like, what the actual fuck?

Deep breath. I count one, two, three, four, five in. One, two, three, four, five out.

My phone buzzes.

I freeze.

Do I check it now? Do I wait? Todd has already called me out for being distracted. Guess it's better to know than to speculate.

I slip it out of my pocket and look.

DICK: Sorry about this morning. I miss you, too.