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“Maybe you do.”

He set the spoon down. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

“Obnoxious.”

“Again, not new.” She glanced toward the dining room, where two girls were taking selfies beneath the taxidermy crow installation. “So. What is it?”

He grabbed a fresh glass because doing something with his hands felt safer than answering cleanly. “Nothing.”

“Hakeem.”

“Layla.”

“That tone means something’s wrong.”

“That tone means I’m as devastatingly mysterious as I am handsome,” and he said it while shaking his crown of coily, dark brown curls away from his face.

“That tone means you met a man.”

He froze for half a beat.

Layla’s face went flat with satisfaction. “Oh, my God.”

“It is not like that.”

“It’s never like that until it very much is.”

“He’s my roommate.”

There was a beat.

Then Layla said, “Tragic.”

“Thank you.”

“No, genuinely. That’s worse.”

Hakeem gave a helpless little shrug while reaching for a bottle of tequila. “I know.”

“Did you choose this, or did this happen to you?”

“Both.”

“Hot?”

He made a face that wasn’t a full denial.

Layla pointed at him like a prosecuting attorney. “So he is hot.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Gay?”

“The house was described as ‘queer-friendly.’”

“Okay, so gay. Older?”