His mouth is saying one thing—that he’s curious and wants my opinion—but his eyes are saying something else. They are begging me to agree with him, pleading for me to tell him that I understand.
But I can’t.
“Honestly?”
“Yeah.” He fidgets with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I won’t get mad, promise.”
I hope not.
“It never made me mad.” He opens his mouth to cut me off, probably thinking I’m blowing smoke up his ass right now. I hold a hand up and keep going. “It made me uncomfortable. I was just starting this new job . . . my dream job. I get why you’re doing it. I understand your cause and what you want to accomplish and I support that. I even respect it. But for me, personally and selfishly, it put me in a really tough position. Siding with my boss and keeping my job, or siding with you and the important cause you’re supporting. My job was kind of my bubble protecting me from the real world and you popped it.”
“But that’s the point. People are hiding in their bubbles and ignoring problems, letting things get worse. They go watch football games and pretend that the men they cheer for aren’t killing themselves to entertain them. They think the League cares about players, when in reality they don’t do shit.” He no longer looks relaxed in the booth. Instead, every vein on his neck is bulging. His shoulders and arms are both stiff; no doubt he is trying to keep his words measured when he wants to yell. Serious conversations in public for the win! “And the racism! Every day when I turn on the news or look at Twitter, there’s a new hashtag. Another Black life lost, and for what? For trying to live? And then I go work for rich white men who bank off our backs. Buying us, trading us, throwing us away when we’re broken. Just to go back into a world that’s moving backward instead of forward. I’m supposed to be quiet and thankful that they threw some money my way? Take it and shut up?”
Whoa.
I feel like I’m doing cartwheels in a minefield, but not just because of Quinton. My own mind is running wild and I don’t like it.
“I don’t know. What you’re doing is messing with my head, okay? I think racism is the worst. But I’ve never known where I fit in this fight. I never felt like I belonged or was even welcome.” If I could get away with pouring the soy sauce on his head, I would. I just wanted to eat and he has me talking about this. He’s a jerk. A very hot jerk. “You’re making me think about things I’ve avoided thinking about my entire life. I try to ignore race, and what you’re doing is forcing me to examine things in a way I never have. I’m fucked up enough with everything else in my life without digging into the crazy parts of my brain.”
So, remember how Quinton kept his voice down and only let his anger show through the tense lines of his muscle-covered body? Well, I do not have that skill. And by the end of my rant, not only is the old couple Bobby said hi to staring, but Quinton looks like he’s about to laugh.
“So you’re saying it really has nothing to do with me taking a knee and everything to do with you?”
And even though the soy sauce dumping might be unacceptable, I make the executive decision that throwing an edamame bean at him is fine. So I do. And it makes me feel better . . . until he catches it and pops it in his mouth like I did him a favor. “I hate you.”
“Maybe, but that might have more to do with you than me too.” He looks like he wants to say something else when his phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket, looking at the screen for a split second before his shoulders tense up and he swipes his finger across the screen, putting it to his ear. “Angela.” His deep voice caresses each syllable of her name. “Is everything okay?”
Ugh. Angela. I’ve bumped into her a few times since our first run-in outside of Quinton’s house and every time she manages to seem even more beautiful and put together than before. Her long, naturally straight, perfectly highlighted blonde hair taunts me. Her cute little upturned nose is almost identical to the one I dreamed of when I begged my dad for a nose job. She’s tall, skinny, and has curves that fit perfectly in her probably size-zero skirts.
And the thought of her makes the embarrassment from the other night rise up once more. I mean really, what was I thinking?
“Okay,” he says and I tune back into his conversation. “I’m at dinner with a friend, but I’ll check in as soon as I get home. Alright . . . bye.”
I ignore the way him calling me a friend stings even more knowing Miss Perfect was on the other end of the phone. “Everything alright?”
“That? Oh yeah.” He fidgets with the wrapped silverware and chopsticks on the table. “It’s all good.”
“Glad to hear that.” I tread carefully with this subject; it’s not one I love talking about considering our recent history. “How long have you two been together?”
“What?” His fingers freeze on the torn edges of the napkin he’s fussed with. “No, we aren’t together.”
I want to roll my eyes and argue, but it’s not my place . . . at all. Also, Bobby approaches our table with a tray full of food.
“Rainbow roll for the lady.” He sets the long plate covered with the colorful roll in front of me.
“Yum.” I fight to keep my eyes from rolling to the back of my head.
