“Your family owns Girl Cheesing?”

“Since 1963. Which is how long Grandma’s Special has been on the menu, by the way.”

Pepper shakes her head. “I didn’t … I had no idea you—”

“Can you imagine what it was like for her? Starting up a business with my grandpa when they didn’t have a penny to their name? Coming up with all of those recipes herself and working sixteen hours a damn day for over half of her life to serve them?”

Something flickers in Pepper’s eyes. It’s not remorse. It’s more like understanding.

I don’t want it. I’m so angry that anything she projects just seems to slide right off me, into a puddle on the floor.

“It’s not—my mom just makes me do it. It’s not anything personal.”

“First of all, your mom didn’t make you do anything.” I glance to my left and see there’s a clear path to the door, but I’m not done yet. I pull out my phone and open the Twitter app to the Girl Cheesing account, shoving the tweet with the crack about the secret ingredient from this morning under Pepper’s nose. “And that’s my grandma’s legacy. That’s my entire family’s livelihood. Don’t you dare stand there and tell me it isn’t personal.”

“Jack, wait—”

“Do whatever you want with the stupid fundraising. I’m sure you’ll have no problem coming up with ideas because you can always just rip off someone else’s.”

Jack

I find out approximately two seconds later that it is very difficult to commit to a heated storm out of a bakery with a giant baguette in your hand. I stalk toward the Eighty-Sixth Street subway station anyway, people looking up at me with alarm that instantly shifts into amusement. I slow my roll just long enough to spot a homeless person who could actually use the baguette I’m wielding, and hand it to him—only to look up and see we’re standing just outside, of all things, of a freaking Big League Burger.

I catch sight of my reflection in the window, my hair all whipped from the wind, my face contorted. I don’t even have the dignity of being able to look angry. Like Ethan and my dad, I’ve been cursed with angry expressions that only extend as far as “mildly confused puppy.” The worst part is, I’ve seen my own face on Ethan’s enough times to know it’s ridiculous.

I’m grateful, suddenly, Ethan busted into the account and kept ribbing Big League Burger all day. So grateful I’m willing to skip into the deli and take the blame with a big fat smile on my face. It’ll be worth it. Hell, I’ll keep on doing it. Just one more thing to tack to the laundry list of things Ethan has started that I’ve had to finish.

There are at least six texts from Pepper by the time I emerge out of the subway, and another few from my dad and from Ethan that I’ve also pointedly ignored. I’m turning the corner when my phone starts to buzz in my pocket—my mom’s calling. I brace myself. I can ignore 99 percent of the people who have my phone number, but I can’t ignore her.

“Where are you?”

“Down the street, why?”

The words come out in a rush, as if I’ve been running. And granted, I have basically been power walking like I’m on fire, but it’s more than that—I’m terrified in that moment that the shoe we’ve been ignoring just dropped. That something happened to Grandma Belly, and not only was I not there, but I was cavorting with the enemy when it happened.

“Get here. Now.”

Okay, scratch that. I’m just in a volcanic amount of trouble. And the only thing worse than my dad being upset with me is my mom being upset with me.

I’m about to open my mouth and tattle on Ethan like the total yellowbelly I apparently am, but my mom beats me to the punch.

“The place is packed. We have customers out the door and not enough hands in the world to serve them. Wherever you are, Jack, RUN.”

For a moment I’m certain it’s a prank. And then I round the corner and see it with my own eyes: a sea of people, so far down the block they’re waiting past the old bookstore, past the bodega and the locksmith and the hole-in-the-wall sex toy shop that doesn’t open until eight o’clock. People of all ages, with backpacks and briefcases and strollers, all of them craning to get a glimpse at the door and how many people are in front of them.

I haven’t seen this many people clustered outside of a shop since the damn cronut.

I take off at a sprint, the anger completely stunned out of me. Some people grumble about me cutting the line—“I work here,” I mutter, which perks a few impatient customers up—and by the time I get up to the counter, I see my mom beaming an almost-manic grin at the register, and we’ve even opened the second one, which is something I don’t think we ever do outside of big events like Pride spilling in more customers, or that summer a Groupon tour ended on our block.

“What happened?” I demand, diving for an extra apron. If Ethan and Mom are already up front, that means I’ll be joining Dad in the back for prep. Thank god this insanity will spare me from parental wrath for at least as long as it takes to get all these people fed.

“Ethan’s tweets!” Mom chirps. Before I even feel my face start to pinch, she adds quickly, “Both of your tweets. After they went viral, I guess…”