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I take a slice and inspect it. “You’re the expert.”

Clint laughs. Then pauses.

“Why’d you say that?”

My stomach drops.

Because I watched you late at night in my makeshift basement bedroom talking about making pizzas all day, how you could still smell the flour even without a stitch of clothes left on you.

I take a bite I don’t want and chew long enough to buy one second of rescue.

“You told me,” I say, swallowing hard. “The other night. You said that you’re an excellent pizza maker.”

His eyes narrow just a little.

“Drunk rambling?”

“Yes.” I set the slice down. “Part of it.”

He sits with that, then nods.

“Right.”

Relief moves through me, followed immediately by shame.

Clint looks down at the phone, thumb brushing the edge of the case. “Hey, um… just so you know, that’s not really me.”

“What isn’t?”

“The rooftop. The drinking.” He looks embarrassed by the memory. “I’m not a big drinker.”

“I figured as much.”

His eyes flick back to mine. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Because I was classy and understated?”

“Because real drunks don’t look miserable being drunk.”

That makes his mouth twitch. “Cool.”

The phone video ends and goes dark in his hand. He glances toward the house.

“You think Don’s mad we ditched him?”

“Absolutely. But he goes home tomorrow. He’ll forgive on the flight.”

“Birthday and dash?”

“He doesn’t like to be the last one to leave.”

Clint smiles, then reaches for a slice of pizza.

I take a bite of mine. He’s right. It’s just so-so.

The show video starts again from the beginning because Clint’s thumb accidentally taps the screen. Tinny drums. Crowd noise. Renny’s voice, distant and delighted, saying something I cannot quite make out.