Shoving the door open I frowned, disturbed by his description. “That’s cynical.”

“I’m not cynical. I’m realistic. And hey, if you choose to be patient, content, then it’s all good. You don’t mind the line.”

“I’m not exactly sure what I am, but I don’t think I’m cynical,” I told him as we started up the stairs to the second floor and my apartment.

“Optimism is a luxury not afforded to the poor.”

I so did not agree with that. “That’s not true. Without optimism no one would ever achieve upward mobility. Without the belief that you can have more, you don’t reach for it.”

The corner of his mouth turned up.

“What?” I asked now. I opened the door to the apartment.

Phoenix carelessly shrugged his shoulder. “Nothing other than I appreciate that you have an opinion. Nice place.” He moved into the apartment, hands in his pockets. “So who lives here?”

“Rory, Tyler’s girlfriend, and our friend Kylie.” I tossed my keys on the kitchen table. “Jessica was supposed to, but then her parents cut her off and she decided to live with Riley.”

“So why does she get to be on your ass about wanting to move out when she was the first one to ditch?”

Good question. “I guess she feels like she had a good reason. Her parents wanted her to major in religion and marry a guy from their church and when she said she wasn’t interested and that she was with Riley, they cut off her money. So she’s too broke to stay here. I don’t have any excuse.”

Yanking the fridge handle, I winced at the hypocrisy of that. I did have a good reason, just not one I could share with anyone.

Fortunately, he didn’t call me out on it. “What’s Rory like? I can’t see Tyler digging the same kind of girl as Riley.”

Pulling the milk out, I set it on the counter. “She’s totally different even though she and Jessica are tight. Rory is sweet and very logical. She doesn’t play games and she really loves Tyler. She thinks he’s the bomb-dot-com.”

“Must be nice.”

“Yeah. It must.” I set two plastic tumblers down and said, “You pour. I’ll get the chocolate syrup.”

He tossed the tumblers in the air in an attempt at juggling or fancy bartending. He was actually pretty good at it, managing to have them spinning while he switched them to hand to hand.

“Wow. Impressive.”

“I’m good with my hands.”

If another guy had said that, I would have either rolled my eyes or giggled, depending on my level of interest, assuming he was flirting. But Phoenix didn’t seem to be flirting in any way. He just seemed like he had needed to get out of the house and I was a convenient way to do that. Like he was mildly curious about me, but not much more than that.

He used the chocolate syrup sparingly, tinting the white milk a soft caramel color. “What’s the point in using any at all?” I asked, squeezing hard to create an inch of chocolate sludge at the bottom of my glass.

“Subtle flavor, that’s all. Just taking the milk up a notch, not drowning it out.” Then he raised his glass in the air and waited for me to do the same. “To the Clean Club.”

“Cheers.” We tapped glasses, and I thought that I should feel uncomfortable around him, considering how little I knew him and how different he was from other guys I’d known, but I didn’t.

We sat on the couch, and the space between us felt natural, a foot or two so we weren’t touching, but not an awkward gap of huge proportions where we both hugged the arms. Scrolling through our movie options, we settled on an action movie and we watched, silent, drinking our milk. I drew my feet up under my legs, and he propped one foot on the coffee table and slumped down in the couch.

It was entertaining enough to hold my interest, and when it was over Phoenix said, “That didn’t suck.”

“So generous in your praise.”

“Cynic. Told you.”

I smiled. “That means its time for a romantic comedy.”

“Really? Do I have to?” He gave me a pained look, but I wasn’t buying it. I had seen how long he had lingered on a Julia Roberts movie in the queue when I had let him have the remote to scroll.

“Yes. It’s mandatory. Like taxes and Taco Tuesdays.”

He gave a laugh. “What? How the hell are tacos mandatory?”

“Because my grandmother says so, that’s how, even though they aren’t Puerto Rican.” I smiled back, pleased that I had amused him, and happy that I actually had wanted to crack a joke. I felt almost . . . normal.

“She the boss in your family?”

“Oh yeah. She has always lived with us and she is totally in charge. She’s my dad’s mother, and she was born in Puerto Rico, though she came here when she was four.”

“So you’re half Puerto Rican? What’s your last name?”

“Yes, though it drives my grandmother crazy how totally American my dad is. Basically the only Latino thing about him is his religion and our last name—DeLorenzo. My mom’s family is a mix of European.”

“That’s a cool name. And now I see where you got your dark hair.” He pointed to my head.

“Where did you get your dark hair?” It was as dark as mine.

“My mom and my aunt Dawn both have—well, Dawn had—light brown hair, but my grandmother’s hair was black, so probably from her. I couldn’t tell you about my father since I’ve never met him and I’ve never seen a picture of him. My mom didn’t even give me his last name, nor did she ever tell me what it was. I’m a Sullivan.”

“How did you get the name Phoenix? We’re both named after birds. How random is that?” Reaching forward, I drained the last of my milk, which was warm, and licked some chocolate off the rim.

“I wasn’t named after the bird. My mother just had a thing for River Phoenix, and he died right before I was born.” Phoenix rolled his eyes. “Nothing like being named after a dude who OD’d on heroin and cocaine. Seems right for my mother, though.”

“It’s still a cool name,” I said truthfully. “It makes you unique.”

“Or a freak.”

“There’s that cynical thing again.”

He smiled slowly. “I’m a lost cause.”

“You’ll change your mind after you’ve watched Mamma Mia!” I lifted the remote.

“You’re really going to make me watch this?”

“Yes. ‘Dancing Queen’ will change your life. But first, we need refills.” Taking his glass and mine, I went for more milk, plus chips and salsa.

Then we watched the movie, and I didn’t resist the urge to sing along. I probably never would have done that with a guy before, but now, in grubby shorts and a T-shirt, no makeup, my hair in need of some serious shampoo, what difference did it make? So I sang the crap out of every number while Phoenix steadily munched tortilla chips.

“What did you think?” I asked him when it was over.

“I only wanted to commit suicide three times, so it was a success, I think.” He looked at me from under that lock of hair. “I admit, I was watching you more than the TV. I dig that you dig those songs.”

“Thanks.” I took the comment at face value. “You can pick the next movie.” It was after midnight, but I wasn’t tired. I had slept so much all summer, and I felt awake for the first time in two months.

He picked a drama about a mentally ill couple and it made me cry. Watching them fall in love, two lonely people in a world that didn’t understand them, was sort of the ultimate statement of optimism, and my heart both broke and felt happy for them. I expected Phoenix to make a crack or tease me, the way the usual guys I hung out with would have. But he didn’t. He just said, “I need to think about this one before we discuss.”

“It was sad,” I said, wiping my eyes.

“Yeah, but there was hope. Interesting.” He stared at a chip in his hand before tossing it back down uneaten. “I guess I should call a cab. It’s too late for you to drive me home.”

“It’s only two. I’m not even tired. I can drive you home or you can just crash here on the couch. Since no one else has moved in yet, it won’t matter.” I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want the thoughts, the guilt, to crowd back into my head. With Phoenix around, I could ignore those feelings, my personal recriminations.