“I feel like a traitor for agreeing with you, but it’s true.”
“I mean, even at work, he’s a bit of a loose cannon. More so, lately.”
My mind was flooded with recent memories of sour hangover breath fogging the air; alcoholic vapors steaming from mugs of coffee; overloud sentences with wild gesticulations drawing attention across the office; knocked-over files; knocked-over screens; an office sitting empty, unexplained, for two days that week. Will’s fondness for a drink seemed to have mutated into something ugly that everyone in the office could see. I wanted to ask more about it, but my questions caught in my throat. It didn’t feel like my place.
James gave out an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, I don’t know how much longer he’ll stick around. Please don’t repeat this to anyone. But Will’s the kind of person who’s interested in something until he’s not. And I think the business is prime to join the growing pile of his discarded hobbies.” He paused to take a sip of his drink. “I get why she worries about him. My mother. I get why she doesn’t always take him seriously. But I don’t know why she takes me even less seriously. If she’d just pay attention, then maybe…God, listen to me going on.”
“No. It’s nice to hear you open up. And funny to hear everyone else’s problems. As for me, I’d love my mother to see me less…”
“Oh really? How come?”
“You really want to get into it?”
“I do. If you’re happy to, that is. You mentioned it’s not your favorite subject.”
And so I went on to give him the sanitized version of my life story.
He blew his cheeks out, laughed. “No way did an argument that big erupt over some dishes.”
“My inability to leave dirty plates by the sink is genuinely a trauma response—my therapist had a field day trying to unpick that. Me and my sister learned our lesson with the dishes, although Claire rebelled in other ways.”
He paused, looking down at me through thick lashes. “Your sister sounds like quite the firecracker. You should bring her along to the summer party. I’d like to meet her.”
I realized my mistake too late. “Oh, um…” I forced myself to look away from his stare. “My sister…well, we had a big falling-out before she moved to LA. I kept dating assholes, kept dragging her into my mess…. I guess the main reason she moved was to escape our mother, though…. It’s complicated.”
There are a lot of questions on his face, but the next one out of his mouth surprises me. “Is there much of a culture clash there? With your mother, I mean.”
I looked at him quizzically.
He continued. “Just for people growing up in the diaspora, I hear there can be some intergenerational friction between what parents are used to and what’s the new norm for their kids.”
“You sound like you’ve swallowed a stack of journal articles.”
He blushed and I realized that my joke may have accidentally hit the mark.
“Sorry. I just wanted to read up a bit. Educate myself, y’know?”
I took another moment to consider him. The earnestness made him bashful, dipping his head toward his beer. “I didn’t mean to be disparaging. It’s cool you want to learn more. Although, I mean…have you dated Black girls before?”
“No. Not that I wouldn’t. But why? D’you think I’d only be interested in your history because I was trying to get laid?” A vulpine smile now sat on his lips. I smiled back.
“Maybe. That’s usually the reason.”
He simply shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint. But if you ever want to chat decolonization, I’m down.”
It elicits a genuine cackle from me.
“Seriously, though,” he continued, “we only have to talk about things you’re comfortable with. I know you don’t like talking about the past, your family, in particular. We don’t have to go there again.”
“Is that a promise?” I nudged him with my shoulder, a grin on my face. His was deadly solemn.
“It can be.” His earnest gaze set my heart fluttering. He reached out a finger. “Let’s make a pact to leave the past where it belongs. Focus on the future.”
And my pinky slid around his, the promise made.
A soft heat pulsed at the edges of the evening as we talked. I could tell that the guy waiting tables—dangly earring, two phones in use behind the bar, clear fuckboy—was trying to flirt with me, not believing James and I could be on a date. On another approach to ask an inane question about my hair, James was curt:We’ll tell you if we need something, thank you. I found myself reaching for his hand across the table and squeezing it. His palms were soft. Large. I felt small in his touch. Needing of his protection. From what, exactly, I’m not sure. Myself, perhaps, my therapist would say.
When the hours had worn on too long and we had to make our way home, we were both unmistakably drunk. More so than on that Christmas Eve we’d spent together.
