In Nashville, there was order. Or at least it felt that way. There was downtown, with its restaurants and honky-tonks and the massive CMA Fest crowds in the summer. There was East Nashville, all earthy and young and hopeful. There was Bellevue, where we lived in the outskirts of the city in an apartment, just beyond Belle Meade, with all of its absurdly decked-out mansions. And then in the city, in the middle of all of it, Centennial Park with its giant Pantheon replica, which to me seemed like the heart of everything, as though all the roads and tangles of freeways led back to it, pumped people in and out each day on their way to and from work.

I miss that. I miss the transition of knowing this is who I am when I’m downtown and this is who I am when I’m home and this is who I am when I visit the restaurant, the original Big League Burger, which was just a stone’s throw away from all the recording studios and publishing houses lined up on Music Row. I miss being able to prepare for things, and knowing where I fit. Not even knowing, really, because when you grow up somewhere, you don’t have to think about fitting into it. You just do.

When Paige is on break from UPenn and deigns to stay with us for a few days at a time, she forces me out of the orbit. We get ramen in the East Village and window shop in Soho and take dorky historical tours that start in different parks. But since she and my mom don’t really talk, the rest of the year it’s just me, a rat in a seven-block cage, wishing something as stupid as walking into an unfamiliar coffee shop didn’t fill me with dread.

Once I actually get inside, I see someone at a table by the window bent over a cup of coffee, wearing Ethan’s baseball hat and holding Ethan’s backpack, with Ethan’s coat draped over the chair. I walk over to him and put my hands on my hips.

“Are you seriously trying to Parent Trap me?”

Jack looks up, brows puckered with disappointment, like he’s a little kid and I just stuck a pin in his balloon. “What gave it away?”

I gesture in the direction of his lanky frame. “Your general Jack-ness.”

“Jack-ness?”

“Well. That, and you’re a little bit of an ass.”

I smirk—a small peace offering—and he returns it and then some, with another one of those half grins. It’s so unabashed that I straighten up a bit, glancing away.

“So where is your brother? Is he in on this little prank of yours? Because if it’s all the same to you, I want to wrap this up quick.”

Jack cocks his head toward the window. “Ethan is currently preoccupied making out with Stephen Chiu on the steps of the Met.”

“So he sent you?”

Jack shrugs. “My brother’s an important dude, in case you haven’t noticed.”

I have. It’s hard not to. Ethan’s one of those man-of-the-people types—always has something nice to say, an extra few minutes to give someone, some practical solution to a problem. Which is why I had been counting on this meeting being a quick one.

Enter Jack, who seems to have absolutely no qualms with wasting time.

My phone pings in my backpack, and I realize with a lurch I haven’t checked it since I got out of the pool. I drop my bag, tell Jack to keep an eye on it while I go grab a tea, and look down at my phone.

Nine texts. Holy crap.

The most recent ones are from my mom: Where are you?? and Is everything okay? My stomach sinks—I never told her I had practice after school today because I didn’t think she’d be home. But then I scroll down and realize that although she is very much worried about my welfare, she was initially more worried about a “Twitter emergency” that needs attending.

I shoot her a quick text to let her know I’m alive and open the ones from Taffy, who—bless her heart—actually remembered I had practice, and broke down the situation with screenshots.

I’m caught up by the time I reach the cashier. Apparently some tiny little deli in the city is claiming Big League Burger copied their grilled cheese recipe, and the accusation now has ten thousand retweets. A Twitter account dedicated to the welfare of small businesses has even co-opted the #GrilledByBLB hashtag, so #KilledByBLB is trending instead.

Jesus. The internet moves fast.

Your mom wants us to fire a sassy tweet back, Taffy has texted. Which is Taffy code for, I know this is a terrible idea, but your mom is my boss and I’m too scared of her to press the point.

I guess I’ll have to, then. I send my mom what I hope is a pacifying text, telling her we should either just let it go or sit on it for a bit and see if it actually merits some kind of apology. I’m no PR professional, but attacking an itty-bitty deli that can’t rub two Twitter followers together can’t be a good look for a goliath like BLB no matter how you slice it.

By the time the barista puts my tea on the counter, my mom is calling. She starts talking before I can even say hello.

“What do you think our next move is?”

I walk over to the counter, prying off my lid to add sugar and milk. I peer out of the corner of my eye to make sure Jack hasn’t made off with my stuff, but he’s just staring out the window, tapping his foot to the beat of whatever he’s listening to with one earbud in his ear.

“I don’t think we should tweet anything at them. People actually seem kind of mad.”

“Well, let them be mad,” says my mom dismissively. “We’re not going to take this lying down.”