“I’ll listen to pretty much anything, and I don’t play piano anymore.”
“You been to any good concerts lately?” I cling to anything that might ignite a decent spark of conversation between us.
“Uh…” He scratches his forehead. “No, but I did get to the Basketball All-Star game recently. That was awesome.”
Great. More sports.
“I got to see Pink last year,” Chastity tells us, and I perk up, throwing my attention her way.
“Oh my gosh, I love her so much.”
“I know, right? She kicks ass! Her concert was so amazing. Like seriously, the best I’ve ever been to.”
I grin. “I’d love to see her live. Who else have you been to?”
This sparks a conversation that lasts until the food arrives. Thank goodness! Even Lincoln pitches in, finally admitting that he went to see Dua Lipa with his little sisters.
“Just to play bodyguard, you know?” He’s trying to play it off all cool, but I bet he loved it.
Part of me wonders if I should tease him, but… we’re not there yet.
Tyrell, on the other hand…
“Yeah, I took Lacey to see Ariana Grande a couple of years ago. We could only afford two tickets, and my mama’s not into that kind of music, so I drew the short straw.”
“Yeah, right.” I nudge him with my elbow. “I bet you loved every second of it.”
His lips twitch, and I crack up laughing.
“You did! You totally got into it. I bet you were singing louder than anybody by the end of the concert.”
“Maybe,” he mumbles, scratching his forehead and making me laugh while he fumbles with his cutlery and attacks the steak he ordered.
I smile across the table, but Lincoln’s not looking at me. He’s too busy devouring his Alfredo pasta.
Staring down at my chicken parmigiana, I say a quick grace in my head—a lifelong habit—then dig in.
The food is delicious, and I savor each bite while Chastity launches into a long engineering-related story that has Tyrell grinning.
“He is a hard-ass, but he’s a smart guy, so I don’t mind him so much.”
They’re talking about professors and throwing out names that mean nothing to me, and possibly Lincoln. He’s looking mildly bored again.
He’s wolfed down his food and is now just sitting there, staring at an empty plate. So I try to engage again.
“How long have you been playing football?” I’m not actually that interested in sports, but my parents always taught me to ask questions about others in order to spark conversation, and it’s clear that football is king in this guy’s life.
He shuffles in his seat, telling me about how he started playing when he was five.
“Wow. And you still love it?”
“Even more than I did back then.” His lips rise into a half smile. “I’d love to go pro, and I’ve got myself an agent already, but who knows. He’s already warned me how hard it is to get selected, so all I can do is keep playing my best and hoping.”
“What would you do if you didn’t get in?”
“Who the fuck knows.” His expression bunches with obvious stress.
“Well, what are you studying? I mean, is there an avenue there you can pursue?”
