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“Good,” I say.

Around us, men pass in pairs. Some young, some older, some obviously together, and all moving with that loose vacation closeness that could mean anything until a hand lands on a lower back.

I watch them. Then I watch Paul watching me watch them.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was a wealthy amount of nothing.”

His mouth curves. “I was wondering if you were okay.”

“Not my favorite flavor, but it’ll do.”

“With being out like this.”

I look out at the pier. People are everywhere, and we’re sitting closer than necessary. Closer than male friends who aren’t having sex would be.

I’d never sit this close to Zane or let him place a napkin on my knee when my ice cream’s running. I don’t even know that fucker’s flavor.

“Yeah,” I say, surprising myself. “I think I am.”

The longer we sit there, the more I notice the men together. It isn’t like the bar. In the dark, you can’t really see them.

Here, two guys walk past in matching hats, sharing a bottle of water. By the rail, a silver-haired man rubs sunscreen onto the shoulders of a guy half his age.

Some couples match. Some very much do not.

I point my spoon toward a man in white holding hands with a younger guy in swim trunks and a see-through shirt. “What do you make of these two?”

Paul glances, then winces. “Rich daddies and their boys.”

The spoon stops halfway to my mouth.

“Is that what we look like?”

Paul’s jaw tightens.

“Probably.”

I look down at myself, then at Paul, who looks like the men’s section of a boutique.

“Damn.”

“Clint.”

“No, it’s fine.” I stab my spoon into the coconut. “Good to know the outside world has a category ready for me.”

“I hate the category.”

“But you know it.”

“Yes.”

I look at the pier, at all the couples not giving a damn what I think is going on between them.

“Do you care?” I ask.