He puts Quinton’s plate down in front of him. “Spider roll and salmon roll, neither with avocado for you.”
“My man,” Quinton says as he rubs his hands together like a super villain ready to take over the world.
And if I just heard him correctly, a villain he is. “No avocado?” I eye his plate with keen interest. “Why not?”
“I hate it,” he says like he hasn’t just lost all of his credibility for being a good judge of anything in life.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, giving him the chance to change his answer to the right one.
“Hate it,” he repeats.
“Oh my god.” My chopsticks fall out of my hand and I turn to see if Bobby is nearby.
It’s one thing to force me to examine my own internal biases and to downplay his girlfriend situation, but it’s another thing completely to disrespect avocados. Everything else we can discuss later, but this? I will not stand for it.
“Just so you know, as soon as we leave here, we’re going to a Mexican restaurant and I’m forcing you to eat guacamole.” I pull out my phone to google the closest restaurant, even though my stomach is growling and I’m starving. “I can’t work with a person who doesn’t like avocados or guacamole. Unacceptable.”
Priorities.
Twenty-three
“I brought food!” I yell as soon as I walk into Quinton’s house.
I kick off my shoes and push them against the wall—the jolt of the freezing-cold cement floors never fails to shock me—before I head into his kitchen with the plastic bag filled with more tacos than he could possibly eat.
Or at least, I hope. He’s like a bottomless pit.
But since he told me he didn’t like avocados and I force-fed him guacamole, I just keep bringing them—and ignoring the fact that my pants are legitimately starting to get too tight from constantly eating them with him.
However, can I just say that I find it incredibly unfair that he’s an actual endless pit and still looks as though he has no body fat. Yeah, sure, he works out like seven days a week. Whatever. The point still stands. It’s bullshit.
“Did you get guacamole?” He shouts this ridiculous question from somewhere in this massive, cold, echoey house of his and misses the theatrical rolling of my eyes.
“Come on, Howard. I thought we talked about this.”
When we stopped by the Mexican restaurant after sushi, I ordered chips and guac. When the waiter brought it to the table, it was like dealing with a fucking toddler. But when he finally tried it, his eyes lit up and he devoured the entire bowl. Apparently his mom used to always make face masks out of avocado when he was growing up and his aversion came from that.
And that’s how I successfully converted him to the Church of Avocado. It is my proudest accomplishment to date.
I pull the tacos out of the bag and line them up on his pristine white countertops that are only pristine because he never cooks. And considering my life goal is to never have to worry about taking the meat out of the freezer and only cook when I want to—which is basically never—he’s living my fucking dream.
I’m only a little bitter.
I look at everything lined up on the counter and there is one very noticeable thing missing.
“Crap!” I meant to stop at 7-Eleven on the way over here, but started to listen to my favorite podcast and totally forgot.
“What’s wrong?” Quinton comes around the corner and even though we’ve been hanging around each other a lot recently, it’s still always a jolt to my system to see his hotness up close and personal.
Plus, even though his beard was never short, he’s stopped trimming it down and it just does things to me. Things. He’s younger than me by more than a couple of years, but the beard just makes him look like a grown-ass man. A zaddy, if you will. And I am here for it.
“Nothing really.” I walk to the cabinet that houses his dishes. “I just forgot to grab my Diet Coke on the way. I guess I can have water. My skin would probably appreciate that.”
“Water is the better choice.” He pulls two glasses down for us. “But I’m pretty sure I saw a Coke in my fridge earlier.”
“No.” I shake my head. I took the only one he had in there a few days ago. “I drank the one you had.”
“Check again.” He lifts his chin in the direction of his fridge. “Angela was over here yesterday, she might’ve left one.”
Angela.
Blah.
So I know that Quinton and I are never going to happen. I get it. But it’s one thing to know that and it’s another to know that the reason why is because his “type” is the complete opposite of me. And while Quinton says they aren’t together, I get the feeling that’s just a technicality. Even though I’m an adult who lives in the time of Rihanna and body positivity and self-love, she still reminds me of all the times I was ignored while my skinny, blue-eyed, blonde friends were the envy of all. When all I wanted was to be one of those mixed girls who looked like both parents. The loose wavy hair or pixie nose or green eyes or something. Anything so that I could see myself in the people around me.
I swear, when Quinton asked why I didn’t fully support him at first, he inadvertently opened a fucking floodgate in my mind. I’ve been remembering all of these things I thought I’d forgotten. I’m feeling things I’d learned to suppress. I hate feelings.
I pause in front of the fridge, squeezing my eyes shut to try to get myself under control and push everything to the back of my mind, where it belongs.
I open the door and sure enough, he’s right. How Angela is consistently forgetting these blows my mind. I can’t keep them stocked in my place. I almost feel bad for taking it.
But
