A/N: Thank you so far for your sweet comments 3

You can tell a lot about a person from what they keep in their car.

My father kept his car lawyerly clean, absolutely no eating or drinking allowed. However, Gerald Broflovski kept a box of cigars covert in the center console, and after winning a big case, would bust one out, cruising down the main roads in a Hybrid filled with smoke.

On Thursday afternoons, he picked me up from basketball practice. I made decent shots but was never great at defending my position and ended up quitting later that semester.

"I watched you the last half hour, Kyle," he said as I buckled into the front passenger seat. "You've got potential. Keep it up and you might get somewhere someday."

I can't tell you how much this dazzled me. My father rarely doled out compliments, and though this one was conditional, I ate it right up. Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ, I had potential.

"Here," he reached into the console and handed me the cigar box and lighter. "You can try one, but don't you dare tell your mother."

Before, I had no interest in bumming a cigar from him, but this felt like an initiation. Like, if I didn't try this, I may as well not have a relationship with my father. We had nothing else in common. This could be the one thing.

I took a roll in my skinny little fingers and lit. Bringing it to my mouth, I expected hickory or the sweetness of burning, but instead, I got a mouthful of what tasted like cat urine. Mortified, I powered down the window and coughed violently, my father giggling and continuing to drive. I chucked it out the window.

"What the hell are you doing!" He slammed on the brakes. The back of my head thwapped against the seat. "Get out and pick that up. You know how expensive those are?"

I did as I was told. I unlatched my seatbelt and went to open the door, hearing him growl behind me: "what the fuck is wrong with you?"

Guess what isn't wrong with me, Dad?

I didn't find cigars in Craig's car, but an empty, flat box for Marlboro cigarettes sitting in the cupholder.

"It's not mine," Craig said, ripping it from my hand. He threw the box into the backseat.

"Is it Tricia's?"

"Hell no. I'd kick her ass."

"Then whose is it?"

"Roommate's."

Ah, yeah. The Roommate. Craig had yet to tell me any more about this person. All I knew is this roommate was an older man (Craig never used any other pronouns besides "he" or "his" for this person), and that he was aggressive. He'd call Craig at random times throughout the workday and scream incoherently, while Craig would just stand there and mumble a multitude of "I knows" "Yeahs" "Okays" while life drained from his face by the teaspoon. I wanted to punch this man. But Craig never seemed to want to discuss it, and I didn't push, like how he wouldn't push me to tell my secrets.

Last time I was in Craig's car, I was too distracted by my own nervousness and wetness to look around. Now that we'd spent the better part of 40 minutes kissing (my lips were dry and pulsing) and touching, him marking me in ways that no one will ever see, I found it in my right to explore.

Silver dog tags hung from the rearview mirror. My fingers traced the length of the chain, then stopped at the identification engraving: STRIPE.

"Did you have a dog?" I asked.

"No," he said, putting on his turn signal to leave the parking lot. "I had a guinea pig named Stripe when I was a kid. My mom had that made for me after he died."

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. It was a long time ago."

"I've had friends with cats and dogs, but never anything other than that. What's having a guinea pig like?"

A sweet smile spread over his face. I had a feeling he didn't get to talk about Stripe often. "Generally, guinea pigs are bit skittish when you first bring them home, but Stripe and I bonded right away. He was so friendly. So friendly, in fact, that he was always getting out his cage to go make more friends."

"Oh?" We passed a suburb with an ice cream truck poking out, a herd of children chasing it.

"Yeah, guinea pigs aren't usually escape artists, but for some reason, Stripe was always getting out and I'd spend hours in the basement looking for him. Little fucker. I miss him."

"That's really cute," I said, shifting my feet over a layer of fast food wrappers and empty milkshake cups.

"You said you had friends with pets. You never had any of your own?"

"No, but I adopted a giraffe through a wilderness conservation program. Does that count?"

"I don't see why not," he rolled down his window a bit and his shaggy black hair flew back. "So... what, is it like child support payments or something?"

"Yeah, Giraffe Support," I said, thinking if I saved up these Giraffe Support payments I could probably afford therapy. But then I would feel bad… "They send me a postcard every month with a picture of him. His name is Kalimbo but I call him High Balls."

"Please show me the pictures of High Balls someday."

"I will," I laughed as we turned onto the street that would eventually trail to my house. Looking down into the pocket of the passenger door, I noticed a few CDs: Good Girl Gone Bad by Rihanna. Iconic. Black Moses by Issac Hayes. Fucking classic. Hybrid Theory, Linkin Park. The case was cracked. He must have had this one for years. The Trainspotting soundtrack… I'd be lying if I said I didn't have this one too.

A yellow album stuck out to me. I couldn't make out what the spine text said, so I pulled it out.

"You have… the SpongeBob SquarePants Movie soundtrack?"

"Hell yeah, I do. It's a good album!"

"If you say so."

"The Flaming Lips are on it!"

"I don't know who that is."

"Oh Kyle, you're breaking my heart."

Funny, he would be the one to break mine.

I opened it up. There was a faded ticket stub for the movie itself, dated November 20, 2004, wedged in one of those inside plastic nodes.

"What's the story behind this?" I asked him.

He quickly glanced at it, then back at the road. "Okay, picture it: November 19, 2004. I was in junior high on a merit trip-"

"-what the hell is a merit trip?"

"It's like a field trip, but not educational."

"Could have called it a field trip either way."

"Don't tease me. Anyway, so, November 19th is when the SpongeBob movie came out. Our merit trip was to the theater, and I was pissed because it literally would have the perfect day to go see it, but we saw a different movie instead."

"What was it?"

"The Polar Express."

"That movie is sweet, though."

"Yeah, but I didn't want to see a Christmas movie before it was even Thanksgiving, you feel?"

"Not really. You know how I feel about time. Besides, the only Jew representation I get is Eight Crazy Nights."

"Oh… yeah, I suppose you're right. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I don't really celebrate Hannukah anymore anyway."

"Why not-"

I cut him off. "So I'm guessing your parents took you to see it the next day. No offense Craig, but that story makes you sound like a spoiled brat."

"Maybe I was sometimes."

My house was beginning to come into view.

"My mom took me," he said. "It may have happened because of bratty reasons, but it was one of the best days of my life."

I remembered the daisy in his office. "You're really close to your mom, aren't you?"

"My life would be very different, probably for the worse, if it weren't for her."

I slipped the CD back into the door pocket. "I miss going on field trips."

"Me too."

"In elementary school, there was a field trip to a music hall or something, I don't remember, but my class was so small that instead of using a bus, they had parents and a couple of teachers carpooling with students. My mom was terrified that one of the parents was secretly corrupt and might sell me to the black market, so she refused to sign the permission slip and I had to stay behind and do classwork."

"...you're joking."

"I'm totally serious."

"Overprotective much?"

"She could be."

"Well, she can't protect you now." He put a hand on my thigh. "Not from me."

True. She couldn't protect me now, and she couldn't protect me when I crawled into that '78 Cobra Mustang, couldn't protect me when Clyde had a switchblade to my throat, couldn't protect me as I was begging for my life. And who knows? Now that I'm older I could picture the situation my mother described.

We parked in the street out front. I squeezed his hand, still thinking of the evils that happen in broad daylight, but smiled nonetheless.

"So," he said.

"So," I said.

He was a teenager all of a sudden, embers in his cheeks, opening and closing his mouth to speak, rolling his eyes at himself.

"What is it?" I asked him.

"It's too soon."

"For what?"

"Nothing."

"Just tell me what you're thinking, please. You're making me nervous."

"It's stupid."

"Doubt." I squeezed his hand again.

God, I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell him how much his affection meant to me, how I adored our conversations, how I lusted for those glances at each other across the lab. We had potential. I wish I could tell him these things now.

But I won't.

Those secrets will never leak from these pages. Not from my mouth.

"Sometimes the Phoenix Theater has retro movie nights, and tomorrow they're showing Blade Runner. I was going to go by myself, but if you're not busy…"

"I'd love to go."

"Really?"

"Of course." I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "So, wait, you're totally chill tonguing me down in your office but you're nervous to ask me on a date?"

"Hm. Guess I got that a bit backward, huh?"

"Just a tad."

"Sorry, I've been wanting to kiss you for a long time. I still do."

"Prove it."

I stumbled into the shop, patting down my hair, straightening my shirt. Thank fuck, no one was hanging out in the waiting area anyway.

In fact, Stan and Cartman were gone, their cubicles deserted. That time of year was slow, and I figured it was just one of those nights. The only sound was a soft buzzing from Kenny's space. Poor dude. The apprentice usually gets put on walk-in duty.

I ambled over and knocked on the wall.

He was curled up in the chair, tattooing a skull right above his knee.

"Ken, what the fuck?"

He glanced up at me, sweat beads clinging to his forehead like giant crystal apricots, then went back shading.

"She said I wasn't gentle enough," he said. "She kept saying that I was hurting her. She cried, Kyle."

"Tattoos hurt. She had to know what she was getting into."

"Still. I wanted to practice being soft."

I leaned against the archway and watched him grimace for a few minutes.

I love Kenny's nook. It reminds me of some hole in the wall game store, with a shelf of Nintendo and anime figurines that are probably worth more than my organs. The Keyblade is hoisted above everything, the crown of a shrine. Below is a signed photo of Kenny meeting Mark Meer at a convention, with the caption "We'll bang, okay?" And posters of Kingdom Hearts, Akira, Final Fantasy, Fooly Cooly, and Bungo Stray Dogs. He always has incense burning too, and crystals arranged in different daily patterns.

"Can I ask you something a little weird? There's no such thing as iHop Customer Confidentiality, right?"

He laughed a little, winced, then said: "Ask away."

"So… the guy from my work."

"The asshole? Are you guys fucking yet?"

"We're getting there."

"I knew it… Go on."

"Apparently, he had you as a waiter once and you weirded him out. Do you remember him?"

"You're going to have to be more specific. What's his full name? I look at people's credit cards."

"Wow, that's… uh, his name is Craig Tucker."

"Oh, that dude!" He pulled the tattoo gun away, cocked his head, dipped for ink, then went back in. "I do remember him. He has, like, four credit cards by the way. So don't marry him or anything."

"Don't worry about that, no one is ever going to marry me."

"Someone will. I think you'd be a good husband."

"I'm sure Bebe would disagree."

"Who cares what she thinks," he squinted at his work again. "So, your dude got weirded out by me, eh?"

"Yeah, he said he was with a friend and you were moaning about the specials or something."

He lifted the needle out of his skin one last time, then looked to me. "A friend? Every time I see him, he's alone."

I frowned. Craig lied to me?

Things were starting to line up in a way I didn't like. He never mentioned his friends by name how I mention Wendy, Cartman, Stan, Kenny. Everything he does seems to be done alone: movies, restaurants… The only people he had specifically mentioned were his mother and sister.

"What do you think?" Kenny asked, beginning to clean up his station. I walked closer.

"It looks really good. How do you feel?"

"I feel okay."

"Good. You really had nothing to worry about."

I continued staring at the skull on his leg. I think Kenny could tell what I was thinking.

"Maybe Craig didn't tell you the truth because he didn't want you to think he's lame."

"I guess. Though I don't think being alone is lame at all. Why lie?"

"He doesn't know you think that way. At least, not yet." Kenny discarded the needle. "He's probably super careful about the people he lets into his life. Kind of like you."

I have concerns about the people in your life, I heard his voice in my head. I get it. I can be anti-social too, but I've never truly gone through anything alone either.

Suddenly this wave of contentment washed over me. I couldn't explain why, but I loved this moment, still feeling warm hands on my waist, warmth on my mouth, and this night of nights with everything quiet except for that soft buzz and a conversation between two friends. I wanted to remember it forever.

"Wait, Ken, do me." I extended my left palm out to him.

"Huh?"

"Practice being gentle on me. You can do something small."

"Where?"

"My palm."

"Your palm! Are you fucking nuts?"

"I have a criminal record that says I am."

Kenny shook his head. "That's going to hurt like a mother fucker."

"That's why it's the ultimate test of gentleness."

"It won't matter how gentle I am," he said, then took my hand and pinched the very center of my palm.

"Ow!"

"See? I barely pinched you."

"It can be small. What about a heart?"

He rolled his eyes, then ran his thumbs over the pads of my fingers. "I can't do an anatomical one. That would be too much. It would have to be simple."

"That's all I want."

He studied my palm more as if he were about to read my fortune, then pointed to the bottom third of my ring finger. "How about I put it here instead? That way it's over the vein the leads to your heart."

"I like that."

"Good, because that's what you're getting."

He cleaned up, took a quick break, then set up everything again. I realized just as the needle curved into my skin that I hadn't eaten or drank anything in hours and my blood sugar crashed. My prediction was right. It was a temporary discomfort, but as soon as Kenny lined the tail of the heart, there was static in my ears and everything went black.