He worked at a pizza place and played bass.
Sometimes he would drive over to my house at midnight to bring me peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and talk until three in the morning, when I would tiptoe back inside to find my insomniac mother sitting on the stairs with her chin resting on her hand, her flannel pajamas rumpled.
“So how is he?”
“Good.”
And then I would tiptoe back upstairs, both relieved and kind of offended that my own mom knew I wasn’t going past first base.