Jordan took a deep breath and looked around the restaurant. It looks like such a little angel when it’s sleeping.

All the waitstaff were someplace else, in the break room or wherever. Jordan had no idea where they went before the place opened.

Tables were set. Jordan’s work, photographs and paintings, hung perfectly straight on the exposed brick walls. Everything was perfect.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and headed up the wide, carpeted staircase. The function room was upstairs. While regular customers would stay downstairs, and hopefully see something they liked, the actual opening and celebration would take place in the function room.

Everything up here was in good order too. His friends had gotten things taken care of before he’d even showed up.

A chime on his phone rang out in the silence. The restaurant was opening. It was showtime. As if on cue, a server appeared from the kitchen with a tray of full champagne flutes.

For the first ten minutes, nothing happened in the function room. Jordan knew this was normal. He’d had openings before.

None of them had been anyplace as trendy as Zeppelin’s, but he wasn’t exactly a neophyte. Nothing usually happened in the first few minutes of one of these shindigs. Knowing this was normal didn’t help the creeping anxiety in his heart.

His opening would be a complete failure. He’d never get to show in another gallery in Boston again. He’d be reduced to complete ignominy.

Then a strange face appeared at the top of the stairs, pink with gray whiskers. “Excuse me, is this the opening for Jordan Davenport’s installation?”

Jordan stepped forward. “Yes, it is. We’re just getting started. I’m Jordan.”

The stranger shook his hand. “I’m Ivan Hooper, arts editor from the Globe.”

Jordan relaxed. This was all going to to go just fine.

Hooper had a few questions for Jordan, which Jordan answered as more people trickled in behind the editor. Most of them were strangers — potential customers and fans. A few were Jordan’s friends, there to help with sales and logistics. Jordan let go, and threw himself into the opening with as much energy as he gave to everything else he did.

Serving staff distributed champagne, took other drink orders, and passed hors d’oeuvres in their usual relaxed fashion. Jordan loved Zeppelin’s. They were a Cambridge institution, but they never got stale or old-fashioned.

He’d dreamed of hosting an opening here ever since he’d been aware that art was something he could get paid for. It wasn’t the apex of his career, by any stretch of the imagination; he still wanted to see his work in the MFA, and in some of the big galleries downtown and in New York.

All the same, Zeppelin’s was an important milestone for him, and he was happy to be here for it.

One of the friends who showed up to help was his buddy Devon Pierce. Devon was a chef at one of the snootier restaurants downtown. Jordan always found it hilarious that Devon worked at a place like that, serving up elaborate meals for wealthy elitists, when he was working so hard in his off hours to try to even the playing field.

As the evening wore on, Devon mingled with the less wealthy potential customers to make sales. He’d already sold ten pieces that way, three paintings and seven prints. Devon could be incredibly persuasive when he put his mind to it. Jordan would have to remember to give him a commission.

Jordan’s whole job tonight was to be visible and accessible, and he tried to focus on doing exactly that. He answered questions from fans, customers, and reporters. He talked about his work and his influences.

The questions all ran together after a while, but he kept a smile on his face and answered them for three straight hours. It wasn’t his favorite part of the game, but it was what he had to do to make it to his goal, and Jordan was damn good at it.

He only knew it was over when restaurant staff gave the subtle hint of clearing the food and drink away. They helped move his inventory out to the car, too.

Guests took the hint, moving downstairs to hit the bar or get full meals. Jordan and Devon did their part to help clean up, and that was it. They headed downstairs to get beer and dinner for themselves, and only then did everything catch up with Jordan.

He was exhausted.

He slumped in his chair and looked over at Devon. “I didn’t think my feet could hurt this much. Or my back. Why does my back hurt? I wasn’t lifting or carrying anything.”

Devon chuckled. “You’re not used to being on your feet. And if you’d asked me ahead of time, I’d have told you the truth. You should have worn more comfortable shoes than that.”

Jordan stuck his tongue out at his friend. “I’m on my feet all the time! Whenever we go to a protest or do more direct action, what do you think I’m doing? I’m not exactly sitting on my ass.”

Devon smirked. “Except when it’s a sit-in. And when you do march or protest, you wear more sensible shoes. Fashion isn’t exactly important when you’re on your feet. Why do you think even TV chefs wear crocs?”

“You don’t wear crocs, even on the job.” Jordan crossed his arms over his chest.

“You’re right. I wear sneakers.” Devon gave him a look. “Because I’m on my feet for eight to twelve hours, or more. Trust me, you learn quickly. It’s different when you’re standing, or moving just a little bit, than when you’re marching around.” He raised his beer in a kind of toast. “So. Did you have fun?”

Jordan’s cheeks blazed. “I did, actually. I had a lot of fun. And so far it looks like we did okay, too. We got plenty of people for the mailing list, which is good.”

“Right?” Devon grinned and leaned back. Then he jumped a little and reached for his pocket. “Who the hell is emailing me?”

He pulled out his phone and checked it, grinning at the screen. “Awesome news!”

Their server delivered their food, a veggie burger for Jordan and a regular burger for Devon. “What’s going on?” Jordan said as he picked up his veggie burger. Not many places made them as good as they did here. A lot of places made them so crumbly they might as well just call them a dry bean stew and have done with it.

“The City of Boston divested all of their assets from institutions with ties to the Dakota Access Pipeline!” Devon held up his hand for a high five. “This is incredible! I’m so excited!”

Jordan slapped hands with his friend. “That’s amazing! When did we protest there — only a couple of days ago, right?”

“Right! And the mayor cited our protest as a big part of the reason they decided to divest. We brought their attention to the problem, and to the spills that the company’s been having all the way down their pipelines.

“If it weren’t for us, they’d never have pulled out. We did it — our work, our energy.” Devon’s smile was bright and inspiring. “I can’t believe how good this feels.”

Jordan laughed out loud, joy bursting from inside of him like bubbles. “Are you kidding me? This is the most amazing news ever. First Boston, next the world.”

Devon clapped his hands once. “Small steps, bro. Small steps. Next is Harvard. Their endowment has invested pretty heavily in the pipeline. I’ll throw it up in front of the committee — actually, why don’t you bring it up to them?”

Jordan frowned and put his burger down. “Me? Why not you? It was your idea.”

Devon shook his head. “I don’t want to get drawn too into that committee, you know? I’m a believer. You know I’m a believer. I’m just — I have a finite number of hours in a week, and my job is very demanding, physically.

“I need to conserve my energy for the things that have more of an impact on me personally, you know? I believe in stopping the DAPL, but given a choice between stopping that, and fighting deportation of the guys I know and work with…”

Jordan nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. “Yeah, I get it. There’s only so many hours in the day, and not all of us have flexible work schedules.”

He could get why Devon couldn’t be at everything. For all the idealism of hoping everyone could make it to every organizing meeting and every planning session, for every action in Boston, Jordan understood how fortunate he was. His job was flexible, and he didn’t answer to anyone.

He didn’t have to have a day job. He didn’t have to worry about being too sore, or too beat up, to show up to work the next day.

“I’m still totally giving you credit,” he told Devon. “It was your idea, and you deserve recognition, man. I know there’s been some snobbery here and there, and it’s good for people to know you don’t have to have a PhD in public policy to have good ideas.”

Devon smirked and sipped from his beer. “Yeah, well, if we had PhDs in public policy we’d probably have jobs that paid better, am I right?”

Then he chuckled. “Who am I kidding? I’m so not cut out for academia.”

He shook his head. “Books are fine for leisure, but as soon as someone tries to force me to read something and then test me on it, I break out in hives. No joke, you should have seen me during my Serv-Safe certification exam. I had to have a whole bottle of Benadryl right there.”

“Cute.” Jordan snorted and went back to his burger. “So what’ve you got going on this weekend? Are you coming to the Abolish ICE rally?”

“I’ll be there for a while early on, but weekends are kind of problematic for most of us in food service. It’s hard, you know? But I can’t imagine doing anything else.” He tossed a fry up into the air and caught it in his mouth. “Now you, on the other hand — you have no such excuse for sitting around all lonely.”

Jordan’s face got hot, and he knew he had to be blushing as red as a fire truck. “Ah, come on, Dev. My schedule is so packed I don’t have time to date. I mean, it’s a nice enough thought, and it would be nice to have someone to share the highs and lows with and all that stuff.

“But I can’t imagine the guy who’d willingly deal with me being too busy to meet up half the time. ‘Oooh, sorry, Bill, I have to bail on our date tonight. I just got arrested protesting outside Charles River Bank; can you maybe call my lawyer for me, since I only get one phone call?”

Devon chortled at that. “Cute. But as it happens, I might have found the perfect guy for you.”

Jordan wrinkled his nose. Everyone thought they knew the “perfect guy” for someone else. “If he’s so perfect, why aren’t you dating him?”

Devon huffed out a laugh. “Because he’s my roommate, doofus. That would just get weird, don’t you think? That’s just bad form.”

“You have a point.” Jordan scratched his head. He hadn’t met any of Devon’s housemates yet, even though he’d been to the house plenty of times. Devon rented a room in a house in Allston.

The landlord had designated the house to be rented out only to gay men, because he’d had so much trouble finding housing when he’d been a young gay man. Rent wasn’t bad, for the area, but Jordan still couldn’t imagine living with a bunch of strangers out in Party Central. “So what is it about this guy you think makes him so perfect for me?”

“Well, for one thing, he’s not going to mind how busy you are. He’ll give you a run for your money in that department. He works all the hours God sends, and then he works some more.”

Devon shook his head. “The guy’s not exactly a workaholic, but he lives like one. But it’s not like you’re any better, right?”

“I’m not a workaholic.” Jordan scowled. “I’m responsible. I’m fighting to make the world a better place.”

He squirmed in his chair and toyed with his napkin. “Okay, maybe I could afford to take a little more time away from organizing. I don’t know if I should, though, with the way the world is going these days.”

“Trust me. The dumpster fire will keep raging without you.” Devon put a hand on Jordan’s shoulder. “You and Alex really are perfect for each other. What kind of world are you fighting for, if you’ve already forgotten what it’s like to enjoy a day or have a little fun? And he absolutely needs to spend some time enjoying life, instead of giving every minute to that damn company.”

“Hm. You could be right.” Jordan scratched at his jaw. He still had the feeling like he was cheating on someone, but he was probably being ridiculous. He could have a few dates. His parents might look down their noses, but there was no shame in dating. It didn’t make him any less of an activist. “What’s he into?”

“Work, mostly.” Devon laughed. “Sleeping when he’s not working. He’s got some books, but I haven’t been nosy.

“I knew him when he was in college, and he studied a lot there, but he did some art here and there, too. Seriously, just meet him. I promise he’ll be just what you need.”

Jordan still wasn’t sold. “What’s his name?”

“Alex.”

Jordan smiled softly at the name. “I used to know an Alex, once upon a time. He was a nice guy.”

Jordan’s Alex had been more than nice, actually, but that had been approximately a billion years and three states ago. The likelihood that Devon’s Alex would be the Alex he’d known in middle school was less than zero, but the memory still made Jordan feel all soft inside.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll meet him. No promises, of course, but I’ll meet him.”

“Fantastic. I’ll work with both of you to figure out a day and time that works, and we’ll take it from there.” Devon raised his beer again. “To new beginnings.”

Jordan hardly thought it was a new beginning, but he joined in the toast anyway. He wondered what his Alex was doing now. Hopefully he was out there somewhere, doing something fabulous that made him happy. Alex deserved happiness.