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“Joke gift from one of my brothers a few years ago,” he says, the tips of his ears turning bright red. “I kept it because of the, uh, artistic integrity. The composition. It’s a really beautiful shot, just from a photography perspective.”

In the kitchen, I meet his mom, who’s petite and blond but with his same kind blue eyes. “I’m Maggie,” she says after lassoing me for another hug, and I begin to wonder if Skyler told them I haven’t been myself lately. Which might have actually been very thoughtful. “If you’re thirsty, if you’re hungry—feel free to grab anything you want. The rest of them certainly do,” she says with a laugh, and though I thank her, I can’t imagine being that comfortable in his house quite yet.

Meanwhile, Skyler’s older brothers might as well be his triplets—tall, broad-shouldered former athletes with floppy brown hair and easy smiles. Luca is a banker in the city, and Emile is a high school math teacher. I also meet his ten-year-old twin sisters, Carlie and Kendra, and Carlie shyly asks if I’ll sit next to her during dinner.

The meal is boisterous and delicious, everyone lovingly teasing each other. I can’t believe I waited so long to take him up on this invitation.

Later, once we’re full and the younger ones have gone to bed, Emile heads home and Maggie tells me she’s made up his room for me. I’m running out of ways to tell this family thank you.

Skyler and I take bottles of hard cider out onto his back porch—he wasn’t wrong about his parents not minding him drinking underage. “As long as they’re doing it here, they’re doing it safely,” Marc explained during dinner.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting the yard in a warm amber light. Branches of a cherry blossom tree sway softly in the breeze. There’s a tire swing out here, a barbecue, a fire pit. I can picture the Benedettis spending hours upon hours out here, defying their bedtimes.

“Thanks so much for this,” I tell him after we tap our bottles together in cheers. “I think I love your family.”

“Don’t tell them that. They’ll adopt you.”

I take a sip of cider, the tartness lingering on my tongue. I’m more relaxed than I’ve felt in ages, and I don’t think it’s just that I’ve gotten away from the city. It’s that Skyler is easy to be around, even when I’ve been a shit friend the past few weeks.

“I know I probably haven’t been the greatest person to live with lately,” I say.

“We’re friends, man. I’m not going to cut you out just because you had a few bad weeks.” He stretches his long legs out on the porch, bottle dangling loosely from one hand. “And I’m glad you’re here, because I’ve been dying to tell you… I finally talked to Adhira.”

My mouth drops open. “Way to bury the lede!” I say, nudging him. “What happened?”

“Well… I wanted to do it all romantic, right?” He’s already blushing. “And I had this idea that I was going to spell it out with pizza toppings—‘I LIKE YOU,’ or something like that. Only I couldn’t get my pepperoni letters to look like much of anything, and in the end, I just asked if she wanted to go for a walk. And I told her I’d been thinking about our past a lot lately, and that I wasn’t sure if I ever stopped having feelings for her.”

“And?”

“It wasn’t the ‘I’ve been in love with you all these years and it’s been torture spending so much time with you when we’re not together’ I was hoping for,” he says, “but she said she’s been feeling something too, and she thought we should explore it.” At that, his mouth splits into a grin.

“Skyler! I’m so thrilled for you,” I say. “It sounds like a good start. Or restart, as the case may be.”

Skyler tips his bottle to mine. “Hear, hear. And you? What’s going on with Rowan? You never gave us the full story.”

I hesitate, staring down at my bottle and scratching at the label with my thumbnail. “We sort of… took a break for a while.”

“Shit. Did she say why?”

“It was my suggestion, actually.”

His brows pull together in confusion. “Oh—I just assumed, because you were so…”

“Miserable?”

“Yeah.”

I shake my head. “If I’m going to explain it, I have to tell you something about my family. Something I haven’t shared with many people.” A deep and calming breath of Staten Island air. The confidence that I can do this. “When I was eleven, my father was sent to prison.”

Skyler doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t have strong, outsize reactions. He listens, letting me unspool this tangled mess of story, and by the time I’ve given him the full tour through my family’s scrapbook, I can’t remember why I was so nervous to begin with.

“I’d wondered about that letter,” he says, “but it seemed like you’d tell me when you were ready. If you were ready.” Then he clasps my shoulder with his free hand. “Thank you for telling me. I mean that.”

His reaction is both quiet and genuine, and it makes the pressure in my chest ease the tiniest bit.

It’s a start.

“I’d look forward to my visits with Rowan as a way to pull me out of this funk that I’m now realizing was—is—depression,” I say. “And none of that felt fair to her, so I told her we should take some space.”