I was early to class, nervous, excited, and eager to make my dreams a reality. I walked with Jordan to her bus stop, then walked to my new school. I was early, yes. But I wasn’t the first one there. Christopher was mopping the foyer, and his surprise to see me became a smile. “Yanni. You’re a student now,” he declared.

“I am. Is your leg better?”

“Much better, thank you.” He lifted his leg off the ground, bending it at the knee, as though proving it and showing me was important to him.

“That’s really good.” I gave him a grin. “I’m glad. I start my new job tomorrow, but if you ever need some help, you come find me or ask Mr Landon to call me. I’ll help you, no problem.”

Christopher smiled and kept mopping the floor. “I will.”

Mr Landon’s voice sounded behind me. “Yanni! You’re early.”

I spun to face him, and he crossed the floor and gave me a bit of a hug. Christopher looked at the floor, then to Mr Landon. “You walked on my floor.”

Mr Landon looked shocked and apologetic. “I’m sorry.” He took my arm and dragged me toward his office. “Sorry, Christopher.”

When we were in his office, he shut the door. “So, you found work already? Helen told me you called.”

“Yeah, first shift tomorrow. It’s an Italian coffee shop. I have to wear a tie and vest as the uniform.”

He laughed. “Sounds fancy. Looking forward to today?”

“So much.”

“Me too!” He clapped his hands together. “I love the beginning of term. Everyone’s fresh and new; there’s excitement in the air.”

His energy was contagious. “I’ve been awake since five,” I admitted. “I’ve been ready for hours.”

“You’re ready for this,” he said, his tone now soft and serious. “You’re gonna nail it. But!” He put up his pointer finger. “Even though you are clearly our favorite student, we don’t have favorites. You’ll have to work hard.”

“I know.”

He gave me a smirk. “I know you do. And I know you’re gonna give everything you’ve got.”

“I will.”

“If things get too much, you need to come to me, okay? If you need to take a step back at any time, you only have to say.”

I nodded.

“Helen would say something award-winning like ‘being strong is the ability to ask for help, not trying to shoulder everything alone,’ but I’ll just say this: if you feel like you’re struggling, with anything, you come find me, okay?”

“I will. Thank you. Right now, I feel great. I’m in a real good place, mentally. I’m not expecting this to be easy, but I want this. And I know I can do it. Everyone has helped me get here, and I want to prove to them that I can. Not just for everyone else, but for me too. I want this, and I’ll do anything to make it happen.”

He smiled and nodded slowly. Proud, even. “And that’s why you’ll make it.”

We spoke for a while about how I found my new living arrangements, but it wasn’t long before he noticed the time. “Oh wow,” he said, shooting to his feet. “We’re gonna be late.”

We’d lost track of time, and when we went out into the halls, we found them buzzing with students. Mr Landon pointed me in the direction of the classroom I was supposed to be in, while he went off in another direction saying hellos and high-fiving people as he went.

The morning of the first day was spent going through introductions, class schedules, expectations, and the syllabi we’d be studying this year. The afternoon was spent introducing ourselves to our classmates, and ad-libbing short scenes. It was daunting, frantic, and the most fun I’d had in ages. I loved every minute.

I met tons of new people, some of whom I liked immediately―the kind of people who you know you’ll be friends with―and some who were possibly a little too loud for my liking. But everyone was friendly, at least, and we were all there for one thing: to learn from the best.

And by the time the day was done, I was so excited, I couldn’t wait to tell Peter all about it. I knew he was hours away from finishing his workday, but I was too happy to wait, so on the walk home, I sent him a selfie of my biggest grin and followed with a quick message. Best first day ever.

I got a reply a few minutes later. Looks like it. Great photo, made my day. Can’t wait to hear all about it.

I almost skipped the rest of the way home. I was the first home, and given my mood, I decided I’d make good on my promise to Jordan to fix her my Greek pasta and made enough for all of us. If someone didn’t want it, I’d have enough for my dinner tomorrow night after work.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Skylar said kindly as I served it up. “But I’ll never say no.”

I laughed. “I had a really good day, and I have these fresh ingredients from shopping with Mrs Landon, and I figured I won’t always have the opportunity to make it. So, voilà!”

George nodded approvingly as he ate his. “This is good, man. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

I was sitting next to Jordan on the sofa as we ate, and she gave me a gentle elbow nudge and a smile. I think she liked the fact I was making an effort to fit in. I guessed she’d been nervous when learning someone new would be moving in, and she didn’t know what to expect. But we were a lot alike, and I think she found comfort in that.

“I have homework to do,” I announced. “Who the hell gets homework on their first day?”

They each put their hands up, and we all laughed. I nodded and swallowed down the last of my dinner. “Fair enough,” I agreed. We discussed practice versus theory in our classes while we cleaned up the kitchen, and my phone rang in my pocket just as we were done.

I fished it out of my pocket to find Peter’s name on screen. It made me smile. I didn’t even have to say anything. Skylar took one look at me and waved me off. “Go on, answer it.” Then she added, “Goodnight, Yanni,” as I took the stairs two at a time.

I answered the call with a laugh as I got to my room. “Hello.”

“Did you run for the phone?” Peter asked. “You sound out of breath.”

I chuckled and closed my door, sliding the lock into place, and flopped onto my bed. “Just ran upstairs. We just finished dinner. I cooked for everyone.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a great day.”

“I have!”

“So, tell me about your classes.”

“Well, I’m in my last year of a three-year program,” I started. “So this year we’ll be doing more voice and movement, complex text and language with things like classical dramatic, verse and prose, that kind of thing. There’s also physicality, voice, and speech for things like accents and dialects. So that’s kind of fun. Then we choose our electives, which is more about discipline and control.”

“What electives will you choose?”

“Applied Theatre and Classical Acting for the Contemporary Stage. I think they’re best suited for me.”

“Sounds great, Yanni.”

“It’s really exciting. Though I have homework already.”

Peter laughed. “Ah, so do I.”

“You have homework?”

“Well, work I brought home with me. Spreadsheets, data collation, analysis. Most exciting stuff.”

“I’ll never complain about the integration of technical facility and creative expression to reveal character again.”

Peter barked out a laugh. “That sounds intense actually.”

“It’s a subject we’re doing this semester. We’re supposed to write a short essay on our interpretation and expectations of what we think it means.”

Peter groaned. “I think I’ll stick with my spreadsheets.”

“How was your day? You sound a bit stressed, actually. Do you always bring work home with you?”

“Not always. Sometimes. I live alone, well, apart from Neenish, but she doesn’t mind.”

“Neenish?”

“My cat.”

His cat? “I never knew you had a cat.”

“Didn’t I mention her before?”

“No.” Not that it really mattered, and to be fair, we had spent most of our time together talking about me. But I was a little disappointed that I didn’t know this about him. “What’s she like?”

“She’s a tortoiseshell. She thinks rather highly of herself.”

I chuckled. “Why Neenish?”

“Like a neenish tart. When I was traveling around Australia, they had these small tarts that were half-pink, half-brown.”

“You traveled to Australia?”

“After college. I spent two months backpacking around Australia, and two months through Europe.”

Wow. Disappointment pecked at me. “There’s so much about you I don’t know.”

“Give us time, Yanni,” he said gently. “We’ll get there.”

I smiled at his sincerity. And the fact he saw a future―of some kind―for us. I also couldn’t expect to know everything about him when I’d not told him everything about me. “So, why does a half-pink, half-brown tart remind you of your cat?”

“Her feet. Well, her paws, to be exact. Her toe pads are pink, brown, pink, brown, like a neenish tart.”

Now I laughed. “That’s cute.”

“I’ll send you a photo. Right now, she has chosen me to be a suitable seat. I should feel lucky, I suppose. Sometimes she won’t speak to me, but she’s rather purry tonight.”

If I was sitting on Peter’s lap, I’d probably purr too.

That thought stopped me cold. Well, more importantly, stopped that warm, seeping heat spreading through my belly. Jesus. I was really thinking of him like that. I held the phone to my chest, took a deep breath, and shook my head. God, he was my friend. I wasn’t ready for him to be anything more than that.

I heard a muffled voice from the phone and quickly put it to my ear. “Sorry, I missed what you said,” I said lamely.

“I just asked if you were okay.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

We chatted for a bit longer, well, Peter did most of the talking. His voice was soft and melodic, safe and strong. But soon, he claimed he had work to do and it was time to say goodbye. “Will you call me after your shift at the coffeehouse tomorrow? Let me know how it goes.”

“Yes, of course. It’ll probably just be boring, but I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Are you right to walk home at night by yourself?”

“Yeah, it’s not far.” His concern squeezed around my heart. “Thank you.”

“That’s okay. Have a good day tomorrow. And remember, if you need, you can call me and I’ll come pick you up and drive you home.”

“It would take you thirty minutes to get there for a two-minute drive.”

“I don’t care. If you don’t feel safe, call me.”

Again, his protective nature felt like a warm blanket. “I will. Though I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Have fun writing your essay.”

I snorted. “Fun and essay don’t belong in the same sentence.”

Peter laughed. “Goodnight, Yanni.”

“Night. Give Neenish a pat for me.”

“I will.”

Two minutes after we’d hung up, I was at my desk contemplating the opening line of my essay when my phone buzzed with a message. It was a photo, followed quickly by another one. The first picture was of a cat’s foot, and there were the cutest little pink and brown toe pads I’d ever seen.

The second photo was of Peter’s torso and legs, dressed in checkered pajama bottoms and a gray tee, and he was sitting on his sofa with his feet on the coffee table. On his stomach was a pretty cat with her eyes closed and a contented look on her face, and Peter’s hand was scratching her behind the ear. There was a caption. She says thanks for the pat.

I stared at the photo for a long time. How an image portrayed such warmth, I’ll never know. But there was contentment and affection, tenderness and a sense of home that made my insides ache.

But I didn’t long for what I’d lost.

This was different. I wanted to be there with him, curled into his side while his cat purred on his lap. He would put his strong arm around me, kiss the top of my head, and keep me safe and warm.

Like a good daddy should.

I put my phone on my desk, like it was suddenly too hot to hold, and took a deep breath. And then another.

Oh God. The lines between us were starting to blur. No, correction. My lines between Peter and I were starting to blur. He’d told me several times he wasn’t ready for a relationship, and I’d said I wasn’t either. But my brain and heart seemed to be on different pages. In different books, even.

I wasn’t ready for another relationship. Not yet. I needed time to be myself before I could be part of someone else’s life. Yet, I wanted him. I wanted to be his boy. For him to protect me always, keep me safe.

Like a good daddy should.

I had to reply to Peter’s photo. He wasn’t to know I was having an internal crisis… So I thumbed out a quick reply. I typed out Lucky cat, and almost hit Send, but changed my mind. I deleted that and wrote Gorgeous instead. I hit Send before I could change my mind again. I turned my phone on silent and threw it onto my bed.

I made a mental note to ask Patrice what she thought of this development, then started my essay.

Expectations and Realities: an essay on what happens when they merge.

* * *

School was much the same the next day, exciting, fun, new. And my first shift at the Il Chicco di Caffè went as I hoped it would. I found my feet easily enough, working out where everything was, how the cashier point of sale system worked, and when I wasn’t serving, I was cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. Typical barista work. But there was a comfort in the consistency.

I worked the closing shift, getting on well with Charise as she showed me how it was expected to be done. When we’d done everything—the chairs stood on the tables, the floor drying from being mopped, security lights on—Charise locked the door behind us. “You all right to get home?” she asked, looking up the darkened street.

“Yeah, it’s just a ten-minute walk.”

“Come on, I’ll give you lift. It’s on my way.”

I got into her car, kinda annoyed that no one trusted me to walk home by myself but kinda grateful for the lift. The rational part of my brain knew it wasn’t always safe to walk home alone at ten o’clock at night in LA, and yes, I was jumpy at sudden noises and would probably crap myself if a couple of guys appeared out of nowhere. But I’d also spent weeks living rough before Spencer found me and months after my parents had kicked me out before I moved in with him. For too many nights, these very streets were my home. I wasn’t some street-savvy thug, by any stretch of the imagination, but I also wasn’t useless. I’d survived far more than a ten-minute walk in the dark.

It literally took Charise two minutes to drive down my street. “This is me.”

She pulled up at the corner. “You have a good night. When are you working again?”

“Thursday.”

“See you then.”

“Thanks for the ride.” I got out and waved her off, quickly making it to my front door and letting myself in. I reset the alarm and found the living room empty, a lone light on in the kitchen. There was a note stuck to the fridge door. Yanni, there’s a slice of my pizza leftover. It’s yours if you want it. It was signed by Skylar, and I assumed a thank you for cooking dinner the night before.

It made me smile. I took out the pizza and inspected it. It looked like a vegetarian, with a stack of veggies thrown on top, and even cold, it smelled good. I nuked it and quickly scarfed it down. I took the note and wrote Thanks with a smiley face on it, in case I didn’t see her in the morning, then carried my tired bones up to my room.

I got changed into pajamas, then made a quick stop to the bathroom, and got back to my room just in time to hear my phone buzz. It was a message from Peter.

Everything okay?

I sat on my bed and wondered how to reply. I liked that he cared, and his concern was somehow different than Charise’s, or even the way the Landons cared for me. When and if my ex ever showed concern for me, it was belittling and humiliating―it was never concern for me at all. But Peter’s concern was genuine and from a good place, and it felt different. I could just picture him staring at his phone, waiting for me to reply, wondering if he should get in his car and come find me. I sent a quick reply.

Everything’s fine. Just got home, ate a quick dinner, am ready for bed. Was going to text you but you beat me to it.

I’ve been worried.

I lived on the streets, you know. I’m okay walking home in the dark.

He didn’t reply for a beat too long. Sorry. Can I call you?

Sure.

My phone rang half a second later. He didn’t bother with greetings. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I was chastising you.”

His voice made me feel as if I’d sunk down into a warm bath. Everything about it soothed me. “It’s fine. I like that you care. I do. It means a lot to me. Anyway, Charise gave me a lift home. Apparently she doesn’t like the idea of me walking home either, but I can manage just fine. I managed just fine on the streets for weeks on my own.”

Silence. “I hate that you went through that.”

“That was far from the worst I’ve been through.”

It sounded like he ran his hand over his face. Then his voice was quiet, wistful. “He should have treated you like a king. Worshipped you.”

I wondered if he worshipped his ex. The one who left him. From what I knew, Peter had given him everything, adorned him with time and love, and his ex had thrown it back in his face. “Did you worship your ex?”

My question clearly surprised him and threw him off. “Oh, um…” He cleared his throat. More silence, followed by a quiet, “Yes. Too much, probably. I thought I was enough for him. I gave him everything I thought he needed, but…”

“You were enough. You are enough, more than enough,” I said, climbing under the covers and settling down in bed. “You would have been perfect. It was his loss. Any inadequacies fall on him, not you.”

I could imagine how attentive he’d be, how caring and thoughtful he’d be to the lucky guy he chose next.

“He didn’t think so.”

“Then he wasn’t right for you. He was a fool, Peter.”

He sighed. “I’m over him now. I did love him. Well, I thought I did. But maybe I was projecting too much on him.”

“Projecting what?”

“My needs.”

I swallowed hard. This conversation had gone down a path I wasn’t expecting, but one I didn’t want to get off. My words were almost a whisper. “And what are your needs?”

I heard him lick his lips. “I want… someone to share my life with.”

“Someone younger than you.”

“Yes.”

“Someone you can keep safe, someone you can care for… be a father figure to.”

It took him a moment, and his voice was rough when he answered, “Yes.”

My heart was pounding so hard, my rib cage felt too small, and I wondered if he could somehow hear it. My voice was a strangled whisper. “You’ll find someone else. Someone who wants those things.”

He let out a long, unsteady breath. “Maybe. Maybe we should have this conversation another time, perhaps. Not over the phone.”

I cleared my throat and tried to calm my hammering heart. He was right. I needed to change topics. “Sorry. How was work today?”

“Busy. Too many meetings that should’ve been emails.”

I laughed. “School was busy too. We had to read in front of the class, passages with different emotions. It was fun.”

“I can stand in front of crowds and give reports and speeches on financial findings, but I’m not sure I could stand up and bare my soul like that.”

“Ah, it’s easy. It’s not my soul I’m baring. It’s a character’s, not mine.”

“I guess that’s true.”

I couldn’t hold back my yawn any longer. “Sorry.”

“You’re tired, and it’s late. I should let you go.”

“I am tired. It’s been a long day. But I’m lying in bed, super comfortable, and your voice is soothing to me.” I didn’t know what made me say that out loud, so I added, “I could listen to you talk for ages.”

He hummed, a low, rough sound. He didn’t speak for a little while, and I wondered if I’d admitted too much. “I’m in bed too,” he said eventually. “And I like the sound of your voice as well.”

I smiled. “Goodnight, Peter.”

“Night, Yanni.”

* * *

“I’m starting to think of Peter in ways I probably shouldn’t,” I admitted to Patrice. We’d discussed my move into the house and the start of school and my job. She was pleased with the progress but knew something else was bothering me.

“In what ways?”

“You know… Those kinds of thoughts.” God, did I need to spell it out for her? “More-than-friends kind of thoughts.”

“Well, that’s not too surprising. You’ve been spending a lot of time with him.” She gave me a motherly smile. “Why are you worried about this? Do you not think he feels the same?”

“Well, am I ready for that? Because right now, I think his friendship is more important than what anything physical might be.” My stomach knotted, and not in a good way. “God, I’m not sure I can deal with anything sexual right now. I mean, the last time I had sex with… my ex, it wasn’t exactly pleasant…”

Patrice frowned. “Was it consensual?”

I shook my head. “Not for me.” I took in and let out a deep breath, trying not to remember that night. “I’m not ready for anything physical. I mean, my brain knows that, but my body… well, it’s not thinking clearly.”

Patrice talked for a while about broken trust and emotional and physical trauma that went with it. Her voice was calming, almost hypnotic. She told me I would know when I was ready to take any next steps, if at all, and not to be pressured until then.

“Peter would never pressure me.”

“You trust him.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” My answer was immediate. “I feel very safe with him.”

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Yanni?”

“Well, it’s about Peter, and I don’t want him to think I was talking about him behind his back.”

“Nothing leaves this room,” she reassured me. “Does it involve you in any way?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Well, it could, I guess. I think I want it to.”

She frowned but waited for me to explain.

“He’s what I’d call a daddy. In that he’s older―forty-three, to be exact―and he likes guys my age. He likes to provide and care for them. It sounds creepy when I say it like that, but it’s not. He’s more like a mentor or a father-figure, who just happens to like being protective…” I cringed. “I’m not saying this right.”

“I know what a daddy is,” Patrice said gently. She looked at the folder in front of her like she was choosing her next words carefully. “Is that what you want?”

I swallowed hard and gave a slight nod. “I like older guys. My ex was older. It was what attracted me to him in the beginning.” I sighed. “They’re just more confident, they have their shit together, and they know what they want. I like knowing that they’re more… experienced.” I looked out the window. “I like the idea of being cared for, loved by an older man. Treated properly, protected and adored. And the other night when I was thinking about Peter, and how I imagined it would feel like to be his boy… That he’d treat me like, and the exact words I thought were ‘like a good daddy should.’”

Patrice blinked.

“I know, right?” I said with a laugh. I scrubbed my hands over my face. “I just added another few years to my therapy schedule because I have daddy issues, didn’t I?”

Patrice chuckled. “Oh, Yanni.”

But then she didn’t disagree with me, and we spoke some more about my father.

* * *

Mr Landon picked me up from outside Patrice’s office. I slid into the front passenger seat. “How was it?” he asked.

I sighed, trying to smile. “Good.”

Whether he believed me or not was a different matter. “Excellent. I hope you’re hungry because Helen is planning a huge dinner.”

I smiled and sank back in my seat. “Sounds perfect.”