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“Ha. You get chased.”

“I do get chased,” I insist.

“By who? By the senior citizens of Mountain Springs?”

“By teenagers, Drew.” I roll my eyes. He’s never seen what it’s like when a group of screaming girls corner you. It might not sound intimidating, but it’s freakin’ scary.

“Ohhh, teenagers. Terrifying. The dreaded teen. However will you⁠—”

“You’re a teenager.”

He gasps. “I’m a young adult.”

“Eigh-teen,” I emphasize. “And, if you’re such an adult, you can buy us breakfast.”

He shuts up. I push the diner door open. First the light hits me, the harsh fluorescent white of an operating room or an interrogation, and then the smell. Forty years of frying oil that has soaked into the walls. Polly’s at the counter with a black coffee. Sixty-something, known my parents thirty years, and she gives me the small, dry smile of a woman who decided a long time ago not to make a fuss over anybody.

“Boys.”

“Polly!”

“Booth by the window?”

“Please.”

“Coffee.”

“Puh-lease.”

“Two coffees?” She eyes Drew’s appearance.

“Two coffees, yes. Please,” he adds.

She nods and goes to get the drinks. She doesn’t say welcome home or how’s the music or saw you on the late show. Polly’s policy, developed over fifty years of running a diner, is to let the people in her booths just be people in her booths. It’s one of the reasons I love her, and one of the reasons I keep coming back even though—and I’d never say this to her face—the food is quite average. But it’s better than some of the stuff I ate in LA. The health culture there is extreme, but it does mean I looked fucking great.

Drew slides into the booth across from me and picks up the laminated menu, studying it with theatrical concentration despite having eaten here twice a month his entire life and being able to recite it in his sleep.

A waitress comes over with two coffees. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. High ponytail, Dora’s apron tied tight around her waist. She sets the cups down, does a small, well-managed double-take of me and goes faintly pink before she gets the notepad out. I shift in my seat.

“What can I get you boys?”

Drew, who twelve minutes ago was claiming to be on death’s door and negotiating the inheritance of my organs, transforms. The hangover evaporates. His spine finds itself. He leans in. I am watching, in real time, the maiden voyage of what I’m going to start calling the Andrew Fox Charm.

“What’s your name?” he says.

“Hannah.”

“Hannah. Hi. I’m Drew. This is my brother. He’s nobody.” He waves a hand at me like he’s clearing smoke.

I drink my coffee to hide my grin.

“Hannah, what’s the best thing on the menu?”

I roll my eyes.

“Pancakes, for sure. They’re like, honestly, so good.”

“Amazing, thank you.” Drew stretches both arms up, casual—the move he thinks is casual. “Yeah, we’re a little rough this morning. Big UMS party last night.”