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“You've had that look on your face all week,” he says, setting the beer on the counter. “Figured I'd come see what's going on.”

“There's no look.”

“Sure, buddy.”

He grabs two beers, drops onto the couch, and hands me one.

I take it and sit down with my stick.

“So,” he says, putting his feet up on the coffee table. “I matched with this girl on an app. Great conversation. Really thought I had something going.”

I grunt and start wrapping the tape around the blade again.

“Then I told her about the nightlight.”

I look up. “The what?”

“My nightlight. I sleep with one. Anyway, she asked what I was scared of, and I told her nothing. Which is true, by the way.”

“Then why do you have a fucking nightlight?”

“It's shaped like a moon. Looks cool.”

I stare at him.

“What?”

“Nothing. Go on.”

“She ghosted me. Within the hour, man.”

“Can't imagine why.”

He throws a couch cushion at me, and I let it bounce off my shoulder.

“Fuck you. A grown-ass man can have a nightlight.”

“Sure he can.”

He keeps talking, explaining something about the lighting in his bedroom and how the moon fits the whole setup. I let him. It's nice having someone here, even if that someone is Jordan Maddox trying to convince me his nightlight makes him more attractive to women.

Then he stops.

“Dude. What the fuck are you doing to that stick?”

I look down.

The tape's bunched up once again.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Are you teaching a bunch of five-year-olds how to tape sticks? Because if you are, you're doing them a disservice.”

“Shut up.”

With a groan, I finally give up, put the stick aside, and reach for my phone.

Nothing.