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I smile and flip over the sandwiches. “You seem hungry.”

“You have no idea. I think I could eat all of that.”

“You can,” I say. “I actually had dinner, so I’m not hungry.”

“You sure?” He looks endearingly hopeful.

“Of course. I’ll take a bite of one sandwich, just to taste, but you can eat the rest if you want.”

Bobby watches me as I pour the soup for him in one of the clay bowls, and I place both sandwiches on a plate. I cut off a corner from one and pop it into my mouth, but put the rest in front of him.

He sits at the island, leaning forward on crossed forearms. His eyes roam my face and he looks as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

“What?” I say. “Why are you looking at me like that? You’re freaking me out.”

“I can’t believe I’ve never realized it before,” he says. “You’ve always done this.” He points toward the sandwiches before him. “Given up what’s yours. I never realized it till right now. You’ve always put me and Mickey and Mom and Dad first. I bet you did it for Jake, too.”

I shrug.

“You shouldn’t. You should put yourself first.”

“I know, Bobby.” I say. “That’s what I’m trying to do here. I’m trying to put myself first.”

“Good,” he says and pushes the plate with sandwiches toward me. “Take one. I don’t need both.”

I push it back toward him. “No, I really am not hungry. You can have them. I promise I’m okay. It’s actually a little late for me to have a full meal.”

He looks at me intently.

“Seriously,” I say. “Just eat the sandwiches.”

“Are you dieting again?” he asks as he takes a bite.

“No, I’m not. I honestly had dinner earlier.”

“With the person that kept you out till 11:00?”

“Yes. It’s a new friend. I met her during one of the interviews. I was at her place.”

He raises his eyebrow.

“Oh, grow up.” I swat him on the shoulder. “It’s not like that. But she is pretty amazing.”

“Maybe I should be asking you if you’re gay,” he says.

I look right at him. “I guess you didn’t forget.”

He lowers his gaze. “No. I didn’t forget.”

“Did you ... want to talk about it now?”

He pushes the sandwiches to the side and takes three spoonfuls of the soup. “It’s good,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say. “It came from a can. You don’t have to talk about it, you know. You’re the one who brought it up.”

“I know!” he snaps. “I know I did.”

I put up my hands in surrender.