“I’ll never understand how you can come here and not play,” Dane finally says, after she’s easily sunk every ball and decides to rerack and start again.
“I don’t have the coordination to hit a ball with another ball and make it go where I want it to.”
“Dude, it’s just practice. It’s muscle memory, not rocket science,” she points out.
“Says the woman so obsessed she carries around her own pool cues,” I laugh.
“Well, that’s just common sense,” she mutters seriously, leaning back over the table to break the rack and play against herself once again. After a few minutes of practice, she looks back at me. “You need a hobby.”
“I have hobbies,” I whine, not wanting her to go all best-friend-protective on me like she always seems to do.
“You have so few hobbies you’re hanging out with me at my hobby before the actual fun part of the hobby even starts.”
I take a large swig of my beer, as though it’s an act of defiance. “Oh please, once the league people show up, you’re so in the zone you don’t talk to anyone. That’s fun for you, but not exactly when I want to come hang out with you.”
“Right, and when they show up, you inevitably leave to go home,” she points out.
“You know with small talk I always just end up sharing random facts and embarrassing you,” I say. I want to add that she knows I’m awkward around random people. When I’m at work, I have a task; that social anxiety around new people doesn’t come out when there’s a purpose to the interaction. Without a direction I have a hard time. But I don’t want to get into all of that tonight.
“I’m not saying you can’t leave. You do you.” She shoots me a look, and I know she means it. Dane never judges me even while she’s razzingme. She grabs her own neglected beer and takes a sip. “But I’m just saying that when youdoleave, that’s when a hobby would be nice.”
“I shop.”
“Browsing vintage stores isn’t an actual hobby. It’s just an expensive distraction.”
“All hobbies are expensive distractions. Mine just clothes meandis good for the environment,” I retort.
“Yeah, you’re a real Captain Planet,” she scoffs.
“I read,” I continue, ignoring her. “Reading is a hobby.”
“Reading is not a hobby.”
I scoff back, mortally offended by this comment. I know she’s riling me up for her own amusement, but I’m honor-bound to take the bait. “Reading is the ultimate hobby! I’m Captain Planetand Reading Rainbow! Reading makes you empathetic to other human experience. It takes you to other worlds! It teaches you about other places, careers, people, regions, cultures.Yourhobby takes you to the same place every single time.Myhobby changes every single night.”
“So you admit, Captain Rainbow, you’re at home reading in bed every single night.” She smirks, knowing she got me game, set, match.
I can’t help but laugh and playfully shove her as the smirk grows wider.
“I’m also baking,” I point out, handing her the neatly wrapped strawberry-rhubarb cornbread I made with all my wares from the market. The smirk turns into a goofy grin, and I know I’m getting out of this conversation.
She particularly loves this tart-sweet combo, and every year she starts texting me about it the minute the strawberries begin popping up at the market. There’s nothing like making something seasonal that seems like a hard-won prize every single year, when warm weather finally takes root. They live in the moment, unable to respond to our spoiled anything-at-anytime lifestyle. And the fluffy nuttiness of the bread combined with the zing of two flavors that meld seamlessly is something I’ve perfected over the years.
She rips open my aluminum foil–and–plastic wrap container swiftly, shoving a crumbly piece of bread into her mouth. The sigh that emanates from her whole body fills me with a deep satisfaction. Dane gives me so much that being able to wordlessly give her something back is one of the reasons I love baking so much.
The fact that I only have one person who I’d actually consider a close friend isn’t really a result of being shy, the way some people assume I am, since I come across quite obviously as reserved. I think it’s more an introversion that would rather go deep. I’d rather have one person who really knows me and understands me than try to spread that out across people. I like my job, and I enjoy untangling other people’s problems in a rational and focused way, but I don’t necessarily want to do that with multiple people whose personal lives I’m more invested in. Being with Dane always feels easy, and that’s a powerful thing.
But of course, it also means that she never forgets anything, since we’re both kind of only invested in each other’s lives.
“What’s happening with grandma-privilege boy?” she asks suddenly. Her mouth is still full of cornbread, but she’s clearly unable to stop the thought once she’s had it. I snort at her description of Eli.
“Weirdly nothing, actually.” I frown. “If I haven’t heard anything about it for two weeks, I should assume maybe he decided to not go after me, right?”
That same disbelief-pity look beams back at me. “You’re joking, right?” It’s hard to take her seriously when she’s stuffed her mouth so full.
“No?”
“Men like that don’t just slink off when they’re challenged. I’d bemorescared that he’s gone silent.”
