How can I argue with that math?
The rain continues its assault on the windows. Upstairs, the vacuum cleaner has gone silent, replaced by the faint clinking of dishes. Oliver plops down on the floor, takes off his helmet, and pats the space beside him. “Sit down, buddy. We need to debrief and figure out wherewe should go next.”
“Mars is the logical next step. It has a thin atmosphere, evidence of past water, and?—”
“Mars it is. We’ll need bigger helmets, though. And maybe a sword.”
“Why would we need a sword on Mars?”
“In case of aliens, Ryan. Keep up.”
I look at him—this loud, barefoot, ridiculous boy who thinks swords are standard equipment for interplanetary travel. He’s everything I’m not. Messy where I’m neat, loud where I’m quiet, brave where I’m careful. And for some strange reason, he’s decided to take me along for the ride that is his life.
I think I finally have a friend. A real one. Not the polite acquaintances I’ve accumulated at school, the kids who say hello in the hallway and forget I exist by lunchtime.
The realization doesn’t arrive with fanfare. There’s no orchestra swell, no beam of celestial light. It’s less bombastic than that.
“Oliver?” I ask.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He scrunches his face up, clearly thinking that getting sentimental just won’t do.
“Dude, we’re not done.” A smirk forms on his face. “I want to visit Uranus too.”
Oh, dear Lord.
5
OLIVER
There’s something peaceful about opening The Brew before the rest of the campus has woken up. It’s too early for anyone to remember to be pretentious about their coffee order or staking out the comfy chairs with passive-aggressive glares.
For the first hour, the only company I have is the slow creep of sunlight over the patio and the occasional moth that survived the night inside. There’s an intimacy to it: I know the shop better than anyone else at this hour. Every sticky drawer, every cabinet whose handle wiggles, every glass ring left on the counter by a careless grad student. Mornings like this, the entire place is mine, and all I’m required to do is keep it alive until the world comes knocking.
I flip the light switches one by one. The bulbs in the Edison fixtures sputter awake with a soft buzz, casting pools of light across the room. Shadows retreat up the brick walls. The green velvet armchair—the one with the cigarette burn on the left arm—emerges from darkness beside the table that wobbles.
My hands move without conscious direction, muscle memory guiding each step. I twist the portafilter free, tap out old grounds, and run my thumb along the basket’s rim before wiping it clean.The tables come next—chairs down from their nightly perch, napkin holders centered just so. When I slide open the pastry case, the glass fogs briefly with my breath as I arrange yesterday’s croissants and muffins in neat rows, hiding the slightly stale edges where they’ve begun to curl.
My mind eventually wanders to places it probably shouldn’t. Namely, to Ryan.
It’s been ten summers since I met the kid who somehow became an extension of myself. We were inseparable—bike rides around the block, secret forts in my backyard, late nights counting satellites. Then one August afternoon, I jogged home from my grandparents’ house to find his house barren.
Mom’s voice, soft but matter-of-fact, still haunts me. “Military families, honey. They go where they’re told.”
The memory of Ryan’s face—round cheeks, oversized glasses, that shy smile—faded over the years, replaced by something hazier. I’d almost convinced myself I’d imagined the whole thing, that maybe Ryan had been a figment of my imagination.
Fast forward to January—I found myself half-naked and shivering on the beach with dozens of other morons when Ryan showed up. I nearly dropped dead. His round cheeks had turned angular, his glasses more modern. But those hazel eyes that used to watch for the first star were the same as ever.
Since that day, we’ve crossed paths maybe a dozen times. Every interaction has been the same—brief and awkward. I want to pull up a chair across from him and hear every chapter I’ve missed. I want to tell him that I still think about our time together. But how do you approach someone ready to flee at a moment’s notice?
The bell above the door chimes. I sigh. “We’re not open yet. Come back at—” The words die in my throat.
Alex Donovan, Coach’s kid, is hovering in the doorway. His outfit screamsI dressed for a job interview at a Fortune 500 company, not a campuscoffee shop.
I set down the rag I’ve been using to wipe the counter. “Hey, man. We don’t open for another hour and a half.”
