She whips her head toward me. “Look, I don’t even know you well enough to be jealous of what you seem to do for your friend with benefits and her kid.”
All of her words run together, and her tone is even more proper than before, like she’s trying to tread as lightly as she can, but I hear what she really wants to say underneath it all: I ain’t her type. She’s just too nice to say it to my face.
All of it makes me smirk and crave the argumentative side of her that I’ll never have because in her mind, we’re not even supposed to be breathing the same air.
“‘Friend with benefits?’” I chuckle, shaking my head.
“Well, that’s what two people are when they’re having casual sex without strings attached.”
“Orwe just two grown folks fuckin. No friendship involved. You too young to understand that or something?”
Her face falls. “Gosh, she’s worthy of sex but not friendship?”
“I don’t have friends.”
“Well, that’s depressing. Why no?—”
I sigh. “A’ight. Where you supposed to be at?”
“I told you.”
“No, you didn’t. You told me a smartass half-truth.”
“I didn’t.” She furrows her eyebrows and crosses her arms.
“You did.”
Nowwe’re arguing.
As a matter of fact, it feels like we’ve had this petty argument somewhere else in another lifetime, but I can’t pinpoint how or when. I just know she’s running from something, and now I’m caught betweenitandher.I don’t think Kenny and Faye even know what it is. I can see it on her face, though, and when she’s close enough, I can even smell it.
She brushes down that same baby hair from earlier, flashing the ring on her left ring finger again. The sunlight hits thepear-shaped diamond while I try to picture her lame ballplayer. He probably looks like the PA that fills in for Dr. Borrowitz sometimes and laughs at his own jokes. She seems like she likes corny men.
“Where your husband?” I blurt, playing her game. “You want me to take you to him?”
She gets real still and looks straight ahead as I drive down Joliet. We’re not even driving anywhere in particular and I ain’t as mad about her wasting my time as I should be.
“I’m not married,” she says.
“So you engaged then?”
She keeps staring ahead at the empty street.
“So when’s the wedding?” I ask.
“There’s not gonna be one.”
“Oh.So, you broke up with him? What, you getting cold feet?” I glance at her.
We’ve passed the Jenkins’ house, Mrs. Monroe’s house, and Beatrice’s. I hit the brakes as we roll to Joliet’s dead end.
“So…you broke up with him?” I ask again.
“No,” she mumbles.
“‘No?’”
“Nothing.” She presses her arms against her chest so hard the outline of her nipples pucker against her shirt and makes me push back when I really shouldn’t give a fuck about her or her “mysterious” ballplayer.
