“That’s what my hens call me, Ryan. Unless you plan to actually fuck my face, you get to call me Zeke.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because I’ve got a damn fine face. Let me in."

“Why?”

“Because I can outlift you and you need someone to push your testosterone levels back into man range. I swear you have a tampon string hanging where your dick should be. I caught you braiding Carrie’s hair yesterday. You need an intervention."

“Fine.” I buzz him in just as I get a new text on my phone.

It’s my oldest sister Ellen again. You sure you finished the grad school application?

I type back, What grad school application? because I love imagining her head exploding.

RYAN! she screams via text. Don’t think it can’t be done. My sisters are masters at it.

Mission accomplished.

You have asked me twenty times. Every time I tell you yes. Stop asking, I respond.

Just making sure, she replies.

I’m not twelve years old, I answer.

In my mind, you are. Plus, it’s important to Mom and Dad. Having you move back home is really critical.

I’ve applied to grad school in California. Berkeley, Stanford, and Cal Tech. Made the mistake of telling my sisters. Ellen hasn’t stopped asking about it for two months.

No one here knows about my application. Not even Carrie.

Zeke bangs on the door before I can even try to shove that thought away, saving me from my own denial. Dad’s slow slide into early dementia has meant increased pressure from my sisters to go back home and help.

“I’m thinking about a change in hairstyle,” Zeke announces, walking in with a giant gym bag and two smoothies from a juice bar down the street. “Can you give me some highlights and lowlights?”

“Lowlights for a lowlife?”

“Do you braid pubic hair? Chloe would love to add that to the spa menu.”

“How would I do that when every woman who comes to O gets a full Brazilian? There hasn’t been any pubic hair on women since 2005.”

“Leave it to Chloe to figure out a way. Maybe you’ll single-handedly create a bush fashion trend. If anyone can do it, you can, mate. You were epic today.”

“Thank you.”

“Epic fail.” He studies me. “I don’t get it, man. Really. Just make a move. You haven’t even kissed her.”

From pubic hair braiding to Carrie in two seconds.

“Yes, I have,” arguing automatically, cringing as I say the words.

“That mistletoe at the office Christmas party two years ago doesn’t count.”

“Not that.”

Eyebrows up, Zeke grabs my weight set and starts doing curls. “Spill.”

“The other night. She came here, upset because she was dumped. And she kissed me.”

“She kissed you?”

“Yeah. But I kissed her back.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did you sleep with her?”

“No.”

He recoils like I poked him with a hot iron. “Why not?”

How the hell do I answer this? While my logical brain tries to figure that out, my stupid brain spits out, “Because she was worried she has a broken vagina.”

Stupid brain has impulse control issues.

He squints. “There are tests for that. Easy. Go to the health department, get some antibiotics, you’re good to go. Not that I would know,” he adds quickly.

“Not that. She felt… vulnerable. Worried about what it meant to be dumped by a gay guy again. I couldn’t just make a move on her in that state, so — ”

“Again? This wasn’t her first gay boyfriend?”

“Damn it.”

“What the hell are you doing here, Ryan?” He hands me a 55-lb dumbbell and I work my triceps. “Either act or move on. Sounds like she’s a hot mess.”

“Carrie is great. Better than great. You’re the pot calling the kettle black.”

“I’m a pot who gets laid. Unlike you. I don’t get it. You have some weird, crazy hang-up about her. She’s not a unicorn. There are plenty of other women out there if she rejects you.”

When, the voice inside my head says, crackling like a handbrake on a train being pumped. When she rejects me.

I shrug. “Why are you so obsessed about this? It’s my life.”

“Because it’s too painful to watch, man. You’re pining away for her and she likes you, and you don’t see it.”

“We’re friends. She doesn’t like me.”

“You said she kissed you.”

“To prove she’s still attractive to men. Or something.”

“She picked you to kiss. Not me.” Shrug. Lift.

I grab the second dumbbell from him and work on toe lunges while he starts doing burpees. “So?”

“Women don’t just pick random guys to kiss when they’re trying to prove a point. Guys are random. Women aren’t.”

“You’re suddenly an expert in human psychology?”

“Aren’t we both? You have to be to do our jobs at O.” He powers through more burpees, panting hard. “Think of Carrie like she’s a client at O.”

I groan at the thought. “What?”

“Seriously. Apply work standards to her. You know when a client has the hots for you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What tips you off?”

“The crotch grabs.” I make it through another set of lunges and drop the dumbbells. “Carrie hasn’t gone in for the kill.”

“Yet.”

I don’t even dignify that with an answer.

“She spends all her free time with you. You curl up on the couch and watch prepper shows. You share pints of ice cream. I’ll bet you even share the same spoon.”

No comment.

“We’re friends.”

“She lets you braid her hair.”

“Friends.”

“She came to you in a moment of weakness and kissed you to prove a point.”

“Friends.”

“Does she do that with her female friends?”

I’m losing this argument.

“If — and I’m only hypothetically entertaining this to prove you wrong — if Carrie’s into me, she has a terrible way of showing it. After that kiss, she pulled back and went on and on about what a good friend I am, how she’s so glad we’re friends, friends, friends, friends.”