Miles, Kamen, Gould, and I were like a nineties’ boy band. Kamen was the heartthrob—six foot four of hulking, WASPlicious, buzzed-headed jock. I was the boy next door—silken of hair and blue of eye and straight of teeth. Gould was the shy one—short, a little stocky, huge mop of curls. Adorable. And Miles was sort of a weird combination of the bad boy and the middle-aged, straitlaced accountant who got pulled up onstage to dance during a concert and was mortified but secretly thrilled.
