Page 22 of Riot

“Almost.”

“Then yes, ma’am.”

She nodded like I’d said something profound. As long as my answer had made her happy, I would be the wisest laundry attendant on the planet. The thought crossed my mind that maybe doing these little things, like fixing what could be fixed, counted for more than I’d given it credit for.

At the door, a familiar voice called, “You work too hard, pumpkin.”

Niles strolled in, wearing sunglasses too large for his face and a pale pink mesh shirt. His shorts were pink as well but not the soft color of his shirt. Aggressive pink. A weaponized flamingo. In his right hand, a sweating cup of iced coffee, and on his wrists, a riot of elastic bracelets and friendship bands that rattled and clacked with every gesture like they were sending out Morse code.

The outfit would’ve been outright hostile if he didn’t wear it with so much deranged confidence.

He paused at the threshold, surveying the laundromat like he was judging the turnout at the opening of a new club.

“You dress like a corrupted fairy.”

He looked down at himself, appearing pleased. “Thank you.”

Niles kissed the air near my cheek then recoiled. “It’s one thousand degrees in here. Why are your pores still open? Leave this place. Run to the sea.”

“There is no sea.”

“Then a ditch.” He pulled me outside. “If you didn’t have me, you would shrivel into a prune. You’re welcome.”

I lit my cigarette and looked him over again. “You look like a cocktail.”

“I need one.” Niles fanned himself. “Why is it always a hundred degrees in there? You people are boiling those poor women alive.”

“Older people love the heat.” I leaned back against the sun-warmed retaining wall, letting the breeze tease at what little hair wasn’t sweat-plastered to my forehead. Niles hoisted himself up next to me, legs crossed at the ankle, and set his coffee down with a flourish, as if it was a goblet at a Roman feast.

He had a way of making the mundane look fun. The mesh shirt, the shorts, the braided bracelets stacked up his arms, even the nicotine stains on his fingertips—all carefully curated, all a little armor for the world outside the Cohen household.

I admired him for it, even envied him sometimes, though I’d never admit it out loud. If I tried to wear what he wore, I’d end up looking like an underfunded street magician. On Niles, everything fit together, the way chaos sometimes did.

“My grandmother used to keep her house at eighty-four, year-round,” I told him, stretching my legs. “You’d open the door and your contacts would fuse to your eyeballs immediately. Maybe it’s an old-timers thing.”

“Or maybe old people just want to see us melt first,” Niles said. He stole my cigarette with a practiced dip, fingers brushing mine, and took a long, showy drag, turning his face skyward as he exhaled. “Revenge of the geriatric.”

Niles had been my friend for years, and I adored him. Too bad his family didn’t feel the same way.

Niles’ family was the kind of old money that still pretended not to have it. His father, Mr. Cohen, ran a chain of private clinics and donated to the sort of political interests that always made the news. Niles’ childhood had been a revolving door of nannies and tutors and chauffeurs, the rooms of their house so big and empty you felt like a lost tourist in a foreign museum.

He’d gone to the best schools, learned to hide his intelligence behind a layer of comedic timing, and spent years perfecting the art of not appearing to care.

He cared a lot, though. That was the problem.

His father had started by threatening to cut him off. Just enough, at first, to make it sting. When that didn’t work, he’d gone in for the kill. Freezing accounts, canceling credit cards, threatening to revoke Niles’ trust if he didn’t “quit dressing like a colorblind degenerate.”

Niles was fighting to hold on to his identity, while his father was fighting to scrub it clean.

He hit the cigarette, exhaling slowly.

“Another fight?” I lit another one. Normally I didn’t smoke this much, but it was better than driving to Mr. Cohen’s house and screaming at him for what he was doing to Niles.

Possibly a slap to wake him the fuck up.

Niles shrugged. “What else is new?”

“Wanna talk about it, hon?”