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son’s a vegetarian. It is your fault.”
    “What’s wrong with that?” Christopher asked.
    “He’s a pansy,” Breno said.
    “Hey.” Reese sounded pissed. Ryan and I said nothing.
    “He isn’t a pansy,” Christopher said.
    They all looked to Ryan to see if he would say anything. He just shrugged and kept shoveling.
    “Shouldn’t you be defending yourself?” Breno finally asked.
    “I’m comfortable with myself. Don’t need to defend anything,” Ryan said. No one responded so he continued, “I’ve worn women’s underwear, dressed in drag, and rocked heels. I like pink. Sometimes I paint my nails. I once flirted with a guy just to get a video game. I wear skintight jeans because they make my ass look awesome. If you didn’t notice, my hair is long. I think it makes me look pretty. For two years in high school, I wore eye makeup. I stopped because it looked like hell in the morning. I spend more on hair and skin products than Reese does. And if you have a problem with any of that, then keep it to yourself.”
    I was stunned. That was the longest speech I’d heard from Ryan since freshman year of college when he actually had to give a speech in class. Reese was just as thrown. Christopher, oddly, looked proud.
    “No. No problem,” Breno lied.
    This was going to be a long couple of weeks.
     
    *
     
    Christopher and I had discussed switching cars for the drive to New Orleans. Like he and I could drive together and let Breno and the twins drive together so they would have time to talk. But after the stop in Vegas that seemed like a terrible idea.
    I could have used our day and a half of driving to tell the twins about Chicago and what I’d done there. I could have told them about watching Esau torture people. Maybe told them about the human trafficking operation their cousin had tried to get me to participate in. Or about the way Vito treated me like his kid. With equal parts pride and disappointment. I probably should have told them. Those moments in life may not be good anecdotes, but it’s bad to let them fester in silence.
    But I didn’t say anything.
    Instead, we talked about nothing. In the usual strain of familiar nothingness. Ryan mooned a couple cars. We got high and giggled in the backseat while Reese drove. Reese and Ryan played show tunes and sang them really, really loud.
    Ryan tried to convince us to go to the Grand Canyon. We said no. He offered to drive. We let him and lost two hours when he decided to go to the Grand Canyon anyway. Turned out it was just a big canyon.
    We stopped for a little while in Albuquerque. It was less than riveting. But it was better than being trapped in the car.
    In Texas, we made jokes about backward people and horror movies. Until we stopped in Dallas and it wasn’t lame. And then we kinda felt like jerks.
    Reese was at the wheel when we finally got to New Orleans. Unfamiliar cities are a bitch. She got us lost despite the GPS.
    “Where are we going?” Ryan wanted to know.
    “I don’t know, but figure it out. ’Cause I’m driving in circles,” Reese said.
    “Should we find a hotel?” I asked.
    “Totally. And food. I’m hungry.” Ryan.
    Reese gasped. “Oh my God. Oyster po-boy.”
    “Good call. Oyster po-boy,” I said.
    “I know, right?” Reese.
    “You’re a genius.”
    “Obviously.” Reese.
    “Huh? What just happened?” Ryan asked.
    “That’s what we want to eat,” I told him.
    “But you hate oysters. And do you even know what a po-boy is?” Ryan asked.
    “Not really. No. Pretty sure it’s a sandwich,” I said.
    “I’m so confused.”
    “I don’t hate oysters,” Reese said.
    “But you don’t like them either.”
    “It doesn’t matter. We want oyster po-boys,” I said.
    “Why?” he asked again.
    “Because we’re in New Orleans,” Reese said.
    We found a hotel, checked in, searched out oyster po-boys, and took them back to our room. I took one bite and immediately spit it back out.
    “I told you that you hated