“You got that right.” Humorless laughter I can’t contain bubbles up from the ugliest part of my soul.
“I’m really sorry.” A look I can’t decipher crosses his face. It looks like he’s having a battle in his head until he squares his jaw and leans forward, coming to a decision on whatever it was. He reaches his arm across the table and gently squeezes my hand.
Oh. Apparently he was deciding whether or not to initiate physical contact with me. Like I’d throw myself all over him at the slightest touch. And that’s annoying, but not infuriating. No.
“I know,” he says. “Losing a parent—”
That’s infuriating. And it’s all I let him say. Because is he fucking kidding me?
“You know?” I pull my hand back and let his fall flat against the table. “You know what it’s like to watch your father, your only living parent, slowly waste away until he’s so sick, so tired of it all, that he quits treatment?”
“Well, I mean . . .” he stutters and pulls his hand back.
I don’t wait for him to finish because I don’t really want to hear what he has to say anyways.
“So you know what it’s like to spend those months pretending everything is going to be fine, when in reality everything is on fucking fire? But instead, you let him think you’re fine, and watch football games with him while you try to memorize each moment with him because you know pretty soon there won’t be any more?”
I pause and raise my eyebrows to see if he has an answer yet. When I’m met with silence, I keep going.
“Then, it happens and he dies. So even though you feel like you’re literally walking through hell and you want to do nothing except stay in bed and cry forever, you get up and work your ass off. And then you get it—the job of your dreams, working for your dad’s favorite team. Only to be stuck with someone who insinuates that you don’t deserve that job? You know what that’s like?”
“No.” He shakes his head, hardness set in his jaw. “I don’t know what that’s like.”
“Of course you don’t.” I lean across the table, disdain dripping from each word. “Because you just think about yourself. You make these grandstanding gestures. You create this foundation. You make these impassioned statements all to say what you want to say and make everyone believe you have all the answers. Forget everything except what mighty, righteous Quinton has to say. You want to fight against racism and problems plaguing the League, but only if it’s on your terms, right? God forbid anyone say anything you don’t like. You’ve gotten everything you’ve wanted your entire life and that’s not gonna stop now. Am I right?”
His expression is blank and those black eyes of his look soulless, not one ounce of remorse or regret shining through. “So I’m guessing we’re going to skip lunch?” He pulls his keys out of his pocket and doesn’t acknowledge anything I’ve said.
Which for some inexplicable reason pisses me off even more.
“Yeah,” I snap. “I think we’re finished here.”
He doesn’t say another word as he unfolds his large body from the small booth and walks out of the restaurant.
“That went fucking great.” I say out loud before waving the waitress back over. “Cake. I need cake.”
Eleven
The sound of my phone ringing wakes me up the following Sunday and a few things stand out.
I do have friends, and said friends do call me on occasion. However, they never call on a Sunday—they know how I am about Sundays during football season—and never before eight a.m. because that’s just rude. The other thing that stands out is the ringtone. The obnoxious ringtone that I set for the obnoxious person on the other end of this call.
“Quinton?” I try my hardest to sound wide-awake, but fail nonetheless. I was up until almost four going over the final details for his event on Tuesday and writing up statements for the coaches and GM to use when they’re undoubtedly questioned about Quinton after today’s game. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because it’s not even eight and we’ve never spoken on the phone, that’s why.”
“We’ve talked on the phone.” He says the lie with so much confidence that even I doubt myself for a second. “We just talked last night.”
I’ve been avoiding Quinton since our lunch from hell last weekend. It’s actually been really easy. I’ve been so busy finalizing details and meeting with vendors for the launch party that we’ve only had time to communicate via text and email. At first, I was super thankful for this. I was pissed and wanted nothing to do with his stupid, but still handsome, face. But as the days have passed and my temper has cooled, I know I need to apologize for how I reacted. But because I can be an adult sometimes, I want to do it face-to-face.
“No we didn’t.” I fall back onto my pillow, wishing I was still asleep. I wonder if he can hear my eyes rolling from wherever he is. “We were texting, and texting is not talking on the phone.”
“We’ve communicated on the phone before. Is that better?”
If I weren’t so tired, I might be impressed that we’re managing to fight about this.
“Sure, fine. Tell me what you want or I’m hanging up.”
His deep sigh in my ear is a not-so-gentle reminder of my ability to grate on his nerves. “Dammit, Elliot. I was hoping this early you would at least be too tired to have an attitude.”
“There isn’t an hour of the day I wouldn’t be fully prepared to have one with you. I’m hanging up now.” I pull the phone away from my ear, fully intending on hanging up when his voice comes over the line.
“Fine! I just got off the phone with my agent,” he says
