Micah was surprised they weren't kicked out of the restaurant sooner.

    After the meals were delivered, Micah made the dreadful, fateful mistake of making good on his promise to leave. "Could I get a box to go?" he asked the waiter with a smile.

    Judging by the stiff way Alistair glared at him, the waiter fled to oblige.

    "Are you kidding me?" Alistair said. "You can't be that upset with me."

    "You're a fucking prick, you know that?" Micah spat, repulsed. "I don't think we should see each other until you remember how to be nice for once."

    Alistair threw his fork down. He hadn't even taken a bite. "And so far, all I've gathered is that you have all my memories. You can't just walk out of my life and expect me to remember it all. Poof! Just one day. I need to be around you to remember."

    "And how's that going?" Micah said, crinkling his sore nose.

    Alistair snapped his fingers, gasping as if in the midst of an epiphany. "You know, something's coming to me, actually. I remember you pissing me off."

    Micah knew he was being facetious, but he was sure he'd pissed Alistair off plenty of times to warrant a memory like that. He sighed, exhausted. "I'm not saying we were perfect."

    "Remind me why we were together again?"

    "I'm not having this discussion with you! I can't keep repeating myself."

    The waiter returned with the box. Two boxes.

    Micah snapped out of Alistair's trance to discover that the tables near them were staring. The horror dawned as his gaze lifted to the waiter's. It wasn't the man he recognized but, in fact, the manager.

    "I'm so sorry," Micah whispered before the man even said a word.

    "I think asking for your boxes to go was a good idea," the manager said with a tight smile. He set the check down. "Enjoy your night."

    Micah sucked his lips in. He pried his hands off the edge of the table where his knuckles had gone white yelling at Alistair. When he stole a glance up, Alistair had his wallet out and was cursing under his breath. He threw his credit card down on the book.

    And then, Alistair made the fateful mistake of setting his wallet on the table.

    Micah dove for it.

    There was such a ruckus of silverware that his drink tipped in his haste to rip the wallet out of Alistair's hand when he retaliated. He scrambled to his own seat, clutching the wallet to his chest.

    "You little—" Alistair swore, throwing himself out of his chair to grab at Micah.

    Micah had the polaroids by the corner. One slipped.

    "These are mine!" Micah cried, kicking him in the shin.

    Alistair's knee buckled. "Fuck—! Fuck you, I was just in a car accident!"

    "Oh, bite me—" And he did.

    They were out on the street faster than Micah could blink. The security guard barricaded the door while Alistair's credit card was being processed by the waiter.

    Micah threw his arms down, straightening his coat. Alistair had walked off a great distance away from him to get a breather, but came back anyway to say, "Give me my photos back."

    Micah flipped him off and clutched them tighter. "No. I took them, so they're mine."

    Alistair closed his eyes, splayed hands closing into fists. He enunciated each word very carefully. "You gifted them. To me."

    "Yeah, and do you remember that?"

    For a moment, just a moment, he swore Alistair did remember because of the way he looked up at Micah. Helpless and pleading, like he was on his knees for Micah, begging him to—

    Micah tsked in annoyance. He'd lowered his hands, and so Alistair snatched the photos out of his grip without a fuss.

    "Not fair," he seethed, sick with rage.

    Alistair turned the photo over with a pause. He flipped it back around. "Where's the second one."

    Micah stopped. His lungs clenched in his chest as he stepped closer to see that yes, Alistair only held one polaroid in his hand: the one of Micah mostly naked, the lingerie hanging off of him in lacy strips past sheer, white stockings.

    His jaw fell open. He met Alistair's eyes. "I don't—" he started, but Alistair was gone.

    He marched back to the door. The security guard held him back, saying, "Hey man, you can't go in there."

    Alistair pointed over his shoulder. "We dropped something back there—"

    The guard took a deep breath. "Listen, when the manager comes out, I'll let him know. But until then..." He gave Alistair a shooing gesture off to the side.

    Alistair stood there, floored. And, likely, imagined Micah's full lingerie nude lying face-up on the dining room floor.

    Micah itched his nose, sniffed, and crossed his arms. Alistair circled back to him with a look of pure loathing, shaking his head.

    "If I don't get that picture back, I'm gonna be so fucking pissed, you can't even believe—" Alistair said with a sharp swipe of his arm. They both faced the restaurant entrance where the guard gave them the stink eye.

    Micah laughed, low and unamused. "Oh, you're gonna be pissed? You?"

    Alistair leant into him so close that the heat of his breath was on Micah's neck. "That's for my. Eyes. Only." And then leant back with a pompous brow arched, like Micah was supposed to be impressed.

    "You literally disgust me."

    "I literally make your heart race."

    "Yeah, with rage."

    Micah walked off with Alistair shouting after him, "If you swoon, I won't blame you, but I won't catch you!"

    Micah threw up his middle finger—literally. He pretended to gag on it as he rounded the corner and left.

    Two minutes later, Micah found himself waiting for traffic to slow so he could j-walk when he caught sight of Alistair emerging from around the corner, togo boxes in hand, searching for him. Micah tried to shield himself with his coat, his hand, anything to keep the recognition off Alistair's face.

    Alistair jogged up to him, triumph in his eyes. "Got the goods."

    "Do me a favor and piss off."

    Alistair handed one bag to Micah so that he could flick the polaroids—there were two. "Gave me this with the credit card."

    Micah pretended to be relieved before lashing his hand out to grab them. Alistair jumped back, spun, and held them high in the air out of reach.

    "How did you manage to sleep around so much in college when you're actually insufferable to be around," Micah said.

    "You wanna know?"

    "Yes, I think psychologists really want to know."

    Traffic cleared, and so Micah stepped off the curb to walk. Alistair followed, leaning close with a devilish smile. "Because I can be very persuasive when I want to be."

    Micah laughed. "And I take it you haven't 'wanted to be persuasive' since you got decked by a car. Alright."

    "Fine," Alistair said, arrogant as shit. "Don't believe me. And when I prove you wrong, don't say I didn't tell you so."

    "God," Micah seethed, thrashing. "You're like a—a—poorly written candidate for a romcom."

    At the subway steps, Micah didn't hesitate whereas Alistair lingered at the railing, tucking Micah's polaroids back into his pocket. Leaning forward, Alistair said, "Until next time!"

    "As if!" Micah shouted back, and hurried to escape the heat of Alistair's knowing, obnoxious smile at his back.

    It was all Micah could do to contain his frustrations until he was off the subway. He barely made it to his apartment before screaming incoherently at the sky, the ground, thrashing his fists about. And, once it was out of his system, he threw his hands down with a huff and deep, meditative breathing.

    This wasn't Alistair. This was just some demonic, pre-maturity version of Alistair.

    Yeah, that's out to fucking kill me, he thought, hands passing through his hair. That dreadful Cursed Wednesday Dinner was bound to haunt him the entire next day and into the evening when he could verbally take out his frustrations on Kennedy.

    Before then, he was forced to endure an amicable drive with Presley to the dinner that was definitely 100% intended to be with a lawyer.

    Micah dropped into the passenger's seat of Presley's Audi and said, "Hey, thanks for driving."

    "Anything for my favorite sugar baby!"

    Micah clicked the seat buckle into place before processing what Presley had said. Slowly, he turned to arch an eyebrow at the man. Presley had pursed his lips and was staring ahead like a dog caught with the Thanksgiving turkey.

    Just don't even acknowledge it. It's partially true, Micah thought, shaking his head.

    "So anyway," Micah said.

    "What, so you're just gonna ignore it?"

    "Did you want me to react to that? Because I'm not."

    "Well, now I kind of want you to."

    Micah shot him a glare as Presley put a hand out to push back Micah's bangs. His hair was getting shaggy.

    "Fine," Presley relented. "How was work?"

    "Boring. Next question."

    "How's the eye? Nose? What got punched again?"

    "Everything," Micah groaned, cupping his nose. It wasn't nearly as tender as it was over the weekend, but echos of the pain remained. He dropped his hand. "Just my nose. Have you heard anything from Kennedy's family?"

    "Yeah... About that..." Presley merged onto the street. "The bride called off the wedding."

    This wasn't the news Micah expected. He stared in shock, in horror, at the realization of what he'd done. How had it come to this?

    The trail was clear as day. Ramona was the maid of honor, the best friend to the bride, and someone the bride trusted with her morals, her opinions, integrity. Best friends were one of a feather, after all, and Conor spoke volumes about Declan's character.

    I should feel happy about this, but I don't, he thought. "God, I'm an idiot."

    "You did the right thing."

    "I broke up a marriage before it even started."

    "You saved that poor girl from marrying a homophobic prick," he reasoned, and then again, "You did the right thing."

    The meeting with the lawyer took place at a lounge Micah had never been to. The lawyer was already there, waiting for him. Micah hesitated at the entrance, frozen on the spot. He'd never dealt with lawyers before, but growing up in his small town with a father who despised them, he feared the worst.

    Presley patted him on the shoulder. "I see Kennedy. I'll introduce you two and then sit with her for the hour. Alright?"

    He tried not to ask Presley to join him for the meeting. "Okay," he said instead, and let Presley lead him to his doom. He was too focused on the meeting ahead to bother noticing Kennedy at the bar until the lawyer left with their assistant nearly two hours later.

    Micah was exhausted, ashamed, as Kennedy and Presley filled the lawyer's space at the couch.

    "Well?" Kennedy said.

    He kind of just wanted to cry. "Where's the bathroom?"

    "Hey, you did good," Presley said, alarming him. "I talked to them as they were leaving. They said we're gonna crush him."

    It wasn't a matter of winning or not. He'd been told the point wasn't to win, it was to humiliate and ruin Declan's reputation as the golden child. Micah didn't know where his want for revenge had gone—he used to love the idea, almost like a fairytale.

    But now...

    "Bathroom?" he said again, pushing into the armrests of his chair.

    Kennedy pointed over her shoulder, and Micah followed the gesture with his eyes. He thanked her and left.

    In the bathroom, he faced the mirror and saw firsthand how petrified he was. At the back of his mind was every concern Kennedy had had from the very beginning—to avoid this. To avoid the name-calling, the slurs, a situation that would lead to this. She'd lied, acted, and involved him to prevent this from happening.

    Micah sucked in a shaky breath, the heels of his palms pressed to his burning eyes. When he gasped, it came out like a sob.

    The bathroom door opened and the moment it did, he knew it was Presley. He turned away, brushing the sleeve of his suit over his eyes. The contrast was so much brighter when he'd lost all the color in his face except for the red tinge to his eyes and nose. The bruises.

    "Hey. Hey, what happened?" Presley said, gentle as always. He reeled Micah into a hug. "What'd they say to you? I have plenty of other lawyers on hand, just say the word."

    "They're fine," Micah said, voice clogged by shame. He sniffed again and declined Presley's handkerchief in favor of turning away to fetch a tissue from the sink. "I've just n-never been to court before."

    "You're scared?" Presley summarized. When Micah said nothing, throat too constricted to speak, Presley said, "I know it's scary, but they'll take good care for you. You'll be more prepared for court than any exam you took in uni, trust me."

    "I just didn't want this to happen," Micah cried, shaking. "A-And there's no way me and Kennedy dating will seriously hold up in court. What if—What if she has to come out? What if they care enough to drag my sexual history out for her whole family to see? It's over. It's so over."

    "Do you want us to settle?" The answer wasn't clear to Micah. Settling felt worse than ruining everyone's reputations involved, but it was certainly the easier option.

    Presley brushed his thumb over his upper lip, thinking.

    Micah cleared his eyes again with his sleeve. "Sorry. I don't know. It's just a lot to take in."

    "It's okay," Presley said. He hugged Micah against his will again, this time hard enough to suffocate Micah into his chest. "Thank you for telling me."

    Micah's voice was muffled by Presley's sweater. "Okay, can we be done with the feelings now?"

    Out in the lounge, Kennedy was sipping on her drink and looking perfect as per usual. She smiled as they approached, though Micah loathed how she softened it, her eyes too gentle for his tastes.

    He glared at her. "Don't look at me like that."

    Kennedy reached for her purse as he sat down. "It looks like you were crying. I brought concealer with me."

    He closed his eyes and let her work her magic only because her fingers were so cold and they felt good on his bruises and burning eyelids.

    "Sorry for making you do all this..." she said, dabbing the corners of his eyes with her pinkies. Presley was in the midst of ordering Micah a Long Island to get him drunkest the fastest, which Micah appreciated.

    "I'm trying to come to terms with it," Micah admitted. "I want to do it, but it's just..."

    "A lot," Presley filled in.

    "Well, you're gonna look like a total hero out there," Kennedy said. "And if I take the stand, I am so saying that you looked wicked cool breaking Declan's nose like that."

    Micah laughed, nerves dissipating slightly. "As opposed to looking totally lame with terrible form?"

    "Duh." She twisted the cap back onto her concealer and tucked it away, singing, "So... Tell us about your date."

    Any of Micah's good will vanished, for more than one reason.

    Kennedy blinked. She winced, leaning back. "That bad?"

    "Date with who?" Presley said.

    Kennedy put her fingers to her lips, staring at him, and then at Micah. Presley's eyebrows were at his hairline.

    Micah sighed. "Well, I suppose now is as good a time as any." The Long Island was delivered, and he finished half of it before saying, "Alistair."

    "Oh." And then, waving dismissively, "That's not a surprise."

    Kennedy choked on a laugh. She turned, smiling, to Micah.

    "And it went horribly. I'm breaking up with him."

    "Oh! You two were, like, dating dating," Presley said. "Exclusive? But what about your date with Lee?"

    "We were open, but now we're closed, and now I'm trying to convince him to break up but he's refusing," Micah said. "So."

    "You're joking," Kennedy breathed. "That's good! Isn't it?"

    Presley laughed, delighted. "I'm so confused!"

    Micah described the events of the date, polaroids and all. Kennedy and Presley watched on, enthralled, eyes rivaling each other in size and horror as Micah and Alistair were kicked out of the establishment.

    "This is a literal nightmare," Micah said. "He's, like, the worst version of me."

    "He so wants you."

    "He needs to stop wanting me. Everything I do just eggs him on."

    "Ah, to be a woman living in a man's world," Kennedy sighed, dreamily, batting her eyes at him. She scowled at him after. "Seriously, he's just into you. Let him be into you!"

    But to top? Micah thought, too nervous to say as much in front of Presley, who was still reeling from the events Micah described.

    "Well, I'm safe for two weeks, probably. Maybe this Reyes guy isn't so bad if he's keeping Alistair away from me for that long. Kidding, of course."

    "Benny hates that guy."

    "Reyes?" Presley said, curious.

    Micah massaged his headache away, sipping his drink as Kennedy explained, "Some guy Alistair went to college with. Benny doesn't even think he lives in the States anymore."

    "I know a Reyes. As in the surname," Presley said, vacantly. When Kennedy and Micah did nothing but stare, he scrambled to explain. "Not personally! And I mean, maybe there are other Reyes, because it couldn't be the same one."

    "And why's that?"

    Presley stared at them like they were buffoons. "Reyes," he repeated, and when neither of them reacted, he leant back in his seat, expression drawn with alarm. "The financial and automobile conglomerate?"

    Micah had thought it was weird that Alistair's friend was named after a car. He looked to Kennedy for confirmation, and she appeared speechless.

    "I mean," she said, "it couldn't be the same guy. 'Reyes' is a common surname abroad, right?"

    "Come on," Micah scoffed. "That's like having the last name Chevrolet or Cadillac."

    "Both awesome surname options," Presley agreed.

    "If he's that famous, I woulda found him on my Reyes deep dive research," she said, but she grew quieter and quieter before ending with an, "Oh, fuck."

    "What?" Micah said.

    "Rich people are famous, wealthy people are hidden," Kennedy said, snapping her fingers. Her competitive streak was taking over, turning her expression deadly. "He's scrubbed from the internet, isn't he? Especially if he's some disgraced third son or something. Could you sic a PI on him?"

    "I reiterate—" Micah started.

    "I wouldn't recommend it if he's actually from the Reyes family," Presley said, but grew just as devious, cupping his chin. "But I can try."

    "This sounds like a terrible idea," insisted Micah.

    "Or an excellent plan," argued Kennedy.

    "Or fun!" said Presley.

    Micah much preferred his description of the idea, and so he ran with it.

    After drinks with Presley and Kennedy, he let them fight over who would drive him back until ultimately, Kennedy won. The second they were in the car, Micah said, "I have something else to confess."

    Kennedy gestured dramatically about the dashboard. "Ah, yes, my car, the confessional booth. Tell Father all about your sins, dear child."

    "Did you give Alistair my address Tuesday, or did he just find it in his history?"

    Kennedy shook her head. "I don't think I did? Why? Did he show up?"

    Micah thought he might be able to say it calmly, but by the end, he was screaming. "Yeah, as I was in the middle of fucking Benny."

    Kennedy screamed back, laughing, and covered her face. She thumped her fist against the window and pretended to die, sinking in her seat as if shot. A nearby passerby did a double-take across the street.

    Micah covered his face and screamed again, "Oh my fucking God! I'm so over this! Where can I find the guy who flattened Alistair's maturity levels all over the road?!"

    "Did he... you know?"

    "No, he didn't see. He just got aggressively jealous and screamed at Benny and James through the door. They barricaded themselves in the bathroom."

    Kennedy was beside herself with laughter as Micah yelled, "It's not funny!"

    "It's kinda funny," Kennedy wheezed, in stitches.

    All through the drive, their silence was broken by Kennedy sputtering trying to hold in her laughter followed by a quick and strained, "So sorry. Tickle in my throat."

    At his apartment, Micah was stopped from escaping by Kennedy leaning over to hold his bruised wrist. She gave him a gentle squeeze, eyes shut. When she opened them, she did so with a deep inhale to say, "I have a confession to make."

    He shut the door and settled back in, expression dry. "What."

    "Alistair didn't ask me for your address, but asked for advice when he did show up. I told him it was a bad idea, but he didn't listen."

    Micah covered his eyes and groaned. "Kill me now..."

    "Do you want me to keep giving him advice?"

    It couldn't hurt, Micah thought, because he believed this Alistair needed all of the advice he could get, lest he become the victim of a murder. "Sure. Why not. And you're right, he definitely shouldn't have shown up."

    "That's what I thought." She patted him on the leg. "Go get 'em, tiger!"

    "I'm going home, you're not dropping me off at school, mom," he said, and stepped out of the car.

    Kennedy just rolled down her window to cheer, "Love you, squirt!"

    Micah ignored her, and as he put his keys into the door, Kennedy screamed loud enough for him to flinch. "SAY IT BACK!"

    He took a deep, meditative breath and turned with a fake smile. "Love you, too, I guess."

    Kennedy shouted, "You guess?! Why I oughta—!" as Micah shut the door behind him. Through the glass, he flipped her off, and she shook her fist at him.

    The moment he was in his apartment, the shoes were off, the suit was stripped, and Micah was face-first on his monstrous couch soaking in the need to sleep for half a century. Still partially dressed to impress, Micah curled up around his couch pillows and laid still until his thoughts dissipated.

    Too tired to argue with his brain, he succumbed to sleep.