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Renny is younger in this one. Shirtless, laughing, one hand lifted against the sun. He is not as tall as me, but he is not short either. The shape through the chest and waist catches me before I can look away.

There it is. Not the face, exactly—though there’s a rough match along the edges—but the build. His body holds itself in a way I recognize.

Paul is young in the photo. Maybe my age now. Tan, windblown, smiling toward Renny instead of the camera.

That smile bothers me, makes me want to know what happened five seconds before the picture. What Renny said. Whether Paul laughed. Whether they walked back to this house sunburned and happy and stupidly certain there would always be another year.

I wonder what it would have been like to be the son of a father who wasn’t afraid of himself.

I put the photo down.

The television hangs blank on the wall, offering the comfort of noise and meaningless motion. I look at the remote on the table, but don’t pick it up.

Another hour of sleep sounds smarter. Let the pain relievers work. Let the green drink do whatever witchcraft Paul put in it. Let my brain stop dragging me through alternate childhoods.

I grab the glass and head to my room.

The bedroom is cool and shaded, exactly the kind of place a hangover should go to die. My laptop sits on the little desk, closed and half-forgotten.

The thought arrives quietly.

I could cam.

Not now-now. Maybe tonight.

The idea doesn’t hit like it used to. No instant switch. No automatic charge. Just a small spark, buried under headache and embarrassment and the sour-sweet taste of ginger in my mouth.

I set the drink on the nightstand and ease onto the bed. My body is tired, but not fully dead. The g-string is gone. The towel is loose at my hips. My skin still smells faintly like Paul’s soap.

I stare at the laptop.

Camming has rules. Everything is contained to the screen. Attraction translated into numbers, tips, requests, little boxes of text. I know how to exist there.

My hand drifts over my chest, then lower without much purpose.

My fingers pause at the towel.

I close my eyes.

Maybe tonight I’ll log in. Maybe not.

For now, sleep.

Chapter twenty-four

Afoot

Paul

Don finds the hats first.

“Oh my god,” he says, stopping so abruptly a man behind us almost walks into him. “These would be so cute on Baxter and Barret.”

Before I can remind him that my dogs are in Indiana and have never taken to tacky clothing, he is already at the booth, holding two tiny sombreros with embroidered bands.

The woman behind the table smiles at him.

“How much for both?” Don asks.