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“Are there other kinds of support groups for people struggling with something?” Like men who freak out while having a hot guy suck their cock because of something that happened a lifetime ago.

He nods. “In New York, I bet you could find a support group for anything.”

There’s every chance I’m about to reveal something I don’t want to, but I trust Maddox enough not to push me if I do. “Theoretically speaking, is there a group for people who…” I swallow the words, not able to bring myself to say them. I shift tactics. “A friend of mine… Something happened to him whenhe was a kid. He was… forced to do something he didn’t want to do. Is there a support group for that?”

The time between my question and Maddox’s response seems to stretch into eternity. My heart is beating in my throat. Surely he knows I’m not talking about my friend. He knows it’s me who’s fucked up.

“You mean sexually assaulted?” is all he asks.

I nod.

“Yeah,” he says. “There’s a few actually. One meets every other week in the same place as my Tuesday NA meeting. I’ll write down the details when we get to your place and you can pass them on to your friend.”

“Thanks, Mad. I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”

“No problem. I’m sure he’d be interested to know that almost twenty-five percent of men experience some form of sexual violence in their lives.”

I had no idea the figure was that high. “That many?”

“Yeah, and over fifty percent of male rape victims experience it before the age of eighteen.”

Definitely didn’t know that either. But why does my brother sound like he’s giving a presentation on sexual violence? “How do you know all this?”

He shrugs. “I read a lot. And I support a lot of sexual assault charities, for both men and women.”

Of course he does, after what happened to his high school girlfriend, Yasmin. Jamestech donates to a designated charity every year in her memory, and I make a mental note to add a charity for male victims to our annual donation list.

“Male sexual assault is rarely discussed openly, and I’m sure a lot of victims, like your friend for instance, think they’re alone. Unfortunately, they’re not.” He gives me a sad smile.

What would a support group for men who’ve been sexually assaulted look like? Would I have anything in common with anyof them, aside from the obvious? I spent ten years in therapy and did all the work, got my pat on the back, and graduated. That should mean I’m fixed.

Maddox and I are quiet for a while, and I don’t know how to stop feeling so fucking tense and awkward.

Of course, he expertly lightens the mood with a change of subject. “Are we watchingTop Gun, then?” I have never been happier to have him by my side than I am at this moment.

“Only if we watch the original,” I reply.

He scoffs. “Have I ever insisted otherwise?”

“Yes. Two years ago on New Year’s Day. I had an epic hangover, and I recall it vividly.”

He rolls his eyes. “That’s only because I hadn’t seen it yet.”

We’re quiet again.

“Do you have popcorn?” he asks.

“Of course I have fucking popcorn. What kind of heathen do you think I am?”

Laughing, he throws an arm around my shoulder. “I can guarantee you don’t have any green tea though.”

“Because it tastes like ass. I have soda—the appropriate accompaniment to popcorn.”

That gets me another eye roll.

“Fine. We can stop by somewhere and I’ll get you some of your ass tea.”

“Good.” He gives me a side eye. “And I would have thought you enjoyed the taste of ass.”