He pulls himself together and drives home. The house isn't, objectively, a large house; it's a 1920s one-story with three small bedrooms and a walk-in closet that Drew uses as a practice room. The bedroom they use as an office is the biggest. They probably could've gotten a king-sized bed into that one, but instead they'd stuck with their old queen in the bedroom down the hall, the one with the crap illumination and a window-frame that had leaked until the stormy night where they drank nine shots of tequila between them and Drew beat on the edge of the window with a rubber mallet while Jesse sat naked and cross-legged in the middle of the bed and laughed until he cried. In the office, they'd set up the massive, heavy, two-sided desk that Drew had inherited from his dad--just about the only thing they own that didn't come from Ikea, and way too nice for two teachers with a mortgage--and angled it so that both of them could just turn their heads to the side to look out the window into the backyard. The house really isn't big, especially not by L.A. standards, but it's way too big for one person, and with Jesse gone it feels too quiet, too. Drew marks the music theory assignments for his Survey classes and goes through his scores, but he can't focus. Eventually, he gets up, heads into the kitchen, and makes two shots of espresso and a cup of tea. He puts the tea on Jesse's side of the desk and lets the smell fill the room while he sips his espresso, and gives himself a half an hour in which to be grotesquely, comically lonely.