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We open our two pizza boxes, one plain cheese and one house combo, digging in as we take seats at the counter, chatting about all of his plans for YouTube videos. I agree to help him out with all of it and he tells me that I might as well make it my career with how good I've been on my very first day. We share a laugh, but I think carefully about that as a very real possibility, telling him how I don't really want to go to university, even though I'm pretty much expected to by my parents.

"That's right, I've been meaning to ask, how did it go with your parents?" Jordan asks before taking a bite into a slice of the house combo pizza.

"In the end they said they'll support me—and don't get me wrong, I was happy about that—but you know what my parents are like. They support me with their money, but not with anything else that matters. I mean, most of the time, they're hardly ever home, and when they are home, we hardly even talk and we don't do anything as a family. They won't be able tell you my favorite color, my favorite food, or my favorite hobbies. And they've never once attended any of my school functions or events."

"Yeah, I know. I remember when you told me how they even missed your middle school grad."

"They missed the high school graduation, too," I add.

"That's rough." He shakes his head. "Must be weird to be both neglected and spoiled at the same time—no offense—I meant—"

"No, I know what you mean." I smirk, looking down on my half-eaten slice of cheese pizza, pensively. I take a bite and swallow it down before I continue, "I've thought plenty about that and came up with the same conclusion. Although, in my defense, I'd like to think that I didn't let it go to my head too badly—with acting spoiled and all. You don't think I'm that bad do you?"

"Well, you're not half as spoiled as some of your friends..." His voice trails off and his eyes widen with the look that perhaps says that he's sorry for reminding me of the painful fact that I no longer have any. He falls silent, looking down solemnly at his nearly-finished slice. "I'm sorry."

"That's all right. Besides, you're right. And you have nothing to apologize for. I'm the one who needs to apologize to you—"

"For what?"

"I felt so bad when Base told me—and I felt so bad about not knowing—especially when I should have known—"

"What? What did he tell you?"

"He said that you were homeless—"

"I already told you that I forgive you for everything. Besides, that wasn't your fault."

"I'm sorry. I mean, if I had still been your friend at the time—I should have been there for you—maybe I could have helped you—"

"Helped me?" He cackles—I can't see what could possibly be so funny within the gloominess of this conversation. He laughs so hard that tears form at the sides of his squinched eyes.

"What's so funny?" I ask, seriously and as he continues to laugh. I patiently await his reply as soon as he's ready and able to give one.

"I got the image of you secretly feeding me leftovers as I hide behind your garden shed," he finally says as his laughter subsides enough for him to speak. The image he gives me only makes me feel more guilty for being so materially spoiled, especially at a time when he had absolutely nothing.

"I don't think that's funny. I can't laugh at the thought of you being homeless. That's serious. And why did I have to hear it from Base? Why didn't you tell me?"

"It was a bad time in my life. I don't need to be reminded of it by telling you about it. It's none of your business anyway. You got lucky with your parents—I didn't. I told them I'm gay and they kicked me out. You told yours and they bought you a brand new Corvette."