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Day’s office was on the fifth floor, Evan’s note had said, but Mikey still double-checked the display sign near the elevators before heading up. He had the elevator to himself, at least. He hated riding with strangers even on the best days.
    Mikey watched the numbers climb as the elevator rose, his stomach tightening with each floor that passed. When the car stopped and the doors opened, he found not a hallway, as he expected, but a wide-open space with a curved reception desk directly in front of him. The dark cherrywood wall behind it was decorated with chrome lettering that read “Law Offices of Charles Day, Esquire.” A young woman sat behind the desk, answering the phone and directing calls.
    It looked more like a movie set than a real office.
    The woman looked up from her typing to smile at him. “Good morning!” she chirped. “Welcome to the Law Offices of Charles Day. How may I help you?”
    “Um.” Mikey shuffled forward. “I have an appointment. At eleven. Um. Mikey O’Malley?”
    Jesus, could you sound any more ridiculous? he scolded himself, but the receptionist’s smile never faltered. “Absolutely. Why don’t you have a seat”—she lifted a hand like a spokesmodel, indicating the seating area off to one side—“and I’ll let Mr. Day know you’re here.”
    Mikey stiffly moved to sit down, trying to steady his breath again. He didn’t know why this freaked him out so much. Yeah, if it turned out someone really was suing him over supposedly messing around with some kid, then dealing with that was going to suck big-time. It wasn’t true, of course, but he wasn’t an idiot. Being gay wouldn’t help his case, especially not in Florida, where antigay sentiment burned brighter than the sun. Not that Georgia was much better, but at least now he lived in Atlanta, an island of blue in a blood-red sea. And in Midtown at that, just blocks from the heart of the Gayborhood.
    “Mr. O’Malley?”
    Mikey looked up to see an older woman in an impeccably fitted black suit smiling at him. “Please come in. Mr. Day is ready to see you.”
    Mikey stood on shaky legs and followed the woman through the heavy double doors at the side of the reception area and into a quiet hallway. Mikey didn’t know what he’d expected from a legal office, but he’d thought there’d be typing, phones ringing, photocopiers running. Either all that stuff took place in a different part of the office, or the place had some seriously good soundproofing.
    The woman led Mikey into a small conference room, one with a table the size of a standard dining room set, not the huge expanse of shining wood he’d expected. Heck, the table in his father’s office at the church was larger than this. Three legal pads and pens lay on the tabletop in front of three of the chairs, and a silver pitcher of water sat in the center of the table, surrounded by a half-dozen short glasses.
    “Please make yourself comfortable,” the woman said. “Mr. Day will be right in.”
    Mikey nodded in a jerky motion and, as the woman left, closing the door silently behind her, he contemplated the seats. He definitely wasn’t taking the one at the head of the table, but the other marked spots were on flanking sides, and he didn’t know which would be better. He finally decided he’d rather not have his back to the door and moved around to the seat on the far side. His butt had just touched the chair when he thought maybe he should pour himself a glass of water, but before he could make a move in that direction, the door opened, and a young man walked in, closely followed by an older man Mikey guessed must be Charles Day.
    “Mr. O’Malley,” the man said. He dropped a leather portfolio onto the table—at the head, as Mikey had expected—and held out a hand. “I’m Charles Day.”
    Mikey rose halfway long enough to shake Mr. Day’s hand, though he could only nod, his mouth gone dry. He needed that water something fierce, but he didn’t trust himself