Page 57 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“Oh,” he said, leaning in again, “it’s a shithole. But it has its good parts.”

“I don’t know if I’ll…fit in?”

He nodded. “You’ll figure it out. Be loud. Obnoxious. Act like you know what you’re doing. Be friendly when you can. Eventually, you’ll get it.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that assessment of American culture. Loudly be yourself and…wait.

“You’re from France but Peter found you in Canada?” he asked. “What’s it like riding a moose?”

Again, before I could stop it, I found myself saying the first thing that came to mind.

“You are such a strange person,” I slapped my hand over my mouth again.

Finally, Alex laughed. I had made him laugh.

“Thanks,” he saluted me with his beer again. “But you have no idea, Frenchie.”

I lowered my hand from my mouth, though I knew my cheeks were red from embarrassment, and smiled down at the island. I had done all I could—unintentionally—to offend Alex, but he was laughing with me.

“Do you smoke, Enzo?” he asked.

“Um—”

“Cigarettes,” he assured me. “I quit drugs around the time the FedEx guy just had to overnight his package.”

“I haven’t in a year,” I said. “It’s bad for you.”

Alex stared at me.

“Do ya’ smoke? Frenchie?”

I grinned at him.

The pocket of my new slacks became a depository for numerous cigarette butts as the hours passed under the pergola in the backyard. Alex and I had left the kitchen and went to sit at the table outside. Using the empty can Alex had from his drink in the kitchen, we sat and smoked under the cover of darkness. Only the stars to share in our secret. We could hear the party carrying on inside, but it didn’t stop us from talking as if we were old friends.

It took me a bit to feel completely comfortable with Alex, but he had a way about him that made me want to open up to him. About everything. Within a half-hour, I was telling him everything about myself, asking him questions that were far too personal after having just met someone. But, as I had suspected, he was as open and interesting as he seemed. When he was removed from the prying ears of other people, he also became less crass. Calmer. More thoughtful and well-spoken. Still hilarious, but less manic in his conversation.

I adored him. And we’d known each other for less than two hours.

Peter hadn’t come looking for us, but he had texted me to make sure that we were okay since we were no longer in the kitchen, nor were we mingling. I had been concerned that he would be cross with me for abandoning the party to talk to only one person, but he seemed delighted that I was having fun. Even if it wasn’t with his other friends. That made talking to Alex even easier since I knew Peter approved.

Over the remaining cigarettes in Alex’s pack, plus a fresh one he seemed to produce out of thin air, I found myself telling him everything about my life. My family. My struggles. Things I wouldn’t have told any friend or even my family. It was as if I’d known Alex for my entire life and we had just found time to actually sit down and catch up.

I began to wonder if I’d finally made a friend in America.

“So,” Alex asked two hours into our conversation, “where are you working? What do you do, Enzo?”

“I haven’t found a job yet,” I admitted.

“I’m in health care. Mostly.”

“It has been difficult to find a job here,” I said.

“Oh? Why? You have a degree, right?”

“I think people don’t want to hire an immigrant who isn’t a full citizen yet? That concerns them?”

“You want to work, right?”