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talk, and I’ll try to choke down some wine.”
    My surly tone makes him smile slightly. “What would you prefer?”
    “Something hot would be good. Coffee or tea.”
    “Are you cold?”
    I shake my head, too proud to tell him a hot drink is a rare treat for me. I mostly drink water from public drinking fountains.
    “Chai tea,” he says, walking over to a high kitchen cabinet and opening it.
    I study his back as he does. He’s exceptionally tall and broad—I dread running into men his size in the tunnels. They hit hard and are usually impossibly strong. I learned quickly it’s best to evade men that big rather than fight them.
    “How tall are you?” I ask, sliding into a chair at his square, wood kitchen table.
    “Six two.”
    “Tall parents?”
    He nods slightly as he pulls a stainless tea kettle from a cabinet. “My dad was six three.”
    “Was? How long has he been gone?”
    “I was thirteen when he died.”
    He’s looking down at the kettle as he fills it at the kitchen sink, but I can hear from the tension in his voice that the wound still feels raw for him. Something in me softens because never would I have imagined that I had anything in common with a man like him, but I do.
    “I’m sorry,” I say. “My dad died when I was thirteen.”
    He meets my gaze from across the room. “I’m sorry. What happened?”
    “He had stomach cancer.” I shake my head sadly at the memories. “It was awful. What about your dad?”
    “9/11.”
    “Oh.” My heart goes out to Andrew in a new way. “So you never got to say good-bye?”
    His lips set in a tense line. “No. Not even a real funeral. His remains were never identified.”
    “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
    Andrew shrugs and switches on the gas burner of his wide, stainless range, setting the tea kettle on it. “It’s been fourteen years now. I’m fine.”
    “I’m not,” I admit. “I miss my dad so much it hurts. Every day.”
    “What about your mom? Is she still around?”
    I blow out a breath. “As far as I know.”
    “Not close to your mom, I take it. Where did you live before you found yourself on the streets?”
    “I can’t talk about that.”
    His brow furrows. “You can’t? Or won’t?”
    “Won’t,” I concede.
    “Okay. Well, how about the sibling you mentioned earlier? Brother or sister? Older or younger?”
    I shake my head. “Let’s talk about something else.”
    “Favorite kind of sandwich?”
    I smile at the glimmer in his dark blue eyes. “Grilled cheese. You?”
    “Pastrami on rye.”
    “My turn. How many women have you done this with?”
    “Talked about my favorite sandwich, you mean?” His tone is light as he gets up to retrieve the kettle from the stovetop.
    “Ha-ha. Paid for sex.”
    He’s quiet for a few seconds.
    “Too personal?” I ask.
    He turns to look at me. “No. I’m adding it up. It’s . . . twelve, I think.”
    “Wow. And you don’t worry about knocking someone up or catching something?”
    “Not at all. The blood test, remember?”
    I nod. “Right. And I assume you wear condoms.”
    Andrew clears his throat as he walks to his stainless refrigerator, which is at least eight feet wide. “Ah . . . yes.”
    “What was that?” I ask.
    “What was what?”
    “You’re hiding something. What is it?”
    I see him smiling as he pours splashes of milk into the mugs with tea bags and hot water. He stirs in some sugar and sets the tea bags in an empty mug. I can smell the sweet cinnamon aroma of the drink as he carries it over.
    “I’ll tell you if you really want to know,” he says.
    “I do.” I pick up the mug and take a test sip. The hot, spicy, sweet tea warms me all over as it slides down my throat. “That’s really good.”
    He nods slightly in acknowledgment of the compliment before speaking. “I usually only have . . . particular kinds of sex.”
    I set the mug down, eyes wide with surprise. “Oh . . . I see. So oral and . . . ?”
    He smiles sheepishly.