he turns to the person on his right, whom he doesn’t recognize from Rhodes’s other parties, a dark-haired man with a nose that looks like it’s been broken: it starts heading decisively in one direction before reversing directions, just as decisively, right below the bridge. “Caleb Porter.” “Jude St. Francis.” “Let me guess: Catholic.” “Let me guess: not.” Caleb laughs. “You’re right about that.”
how cutie
