Chapter 10
You can tell a lot about a person by their pizza topping of choice.
Pepperoni is for risk-takers—the ones who don’t bother asking what is it really and where exactly does it come from?
Pineapple, obviously, is for sociopaths.
Or people from L.A., but what’s the difference?
Anything other than a plain slice is an admission.
But I didn’t agree to stop at Ro’s go-to spot for a psychoanalysis of his late-night order. I’m just here to soak up my blood alcohol content and the night’s ick with a greasy slice or four.
“Thanks for joining me for second dinner,” I say, shifting to make space for a guy struggling with an unwieldy take-out pie.
When he walks between me and Ro to cover his pizza in assorted spices, Ro steps around him to join me again. The movement leaves me pinned between Ro’s chest and the wall. His shoulders tense, almost imperceptibly, as his body registers the feel of mine, but he doesn’t back away.
Each exhale of Ro’s minty breath is only inches from me now as he speaks. “Everyone knows a slice doesn’t count. Couldn’t let you leave a date hungry.”
I’m doing my best to focus on his words, but my brain is singularly focused on the feel of his cool, steady breath on me, and trying to guess if he stopped to brush his teeth on his way out the door.
My unfocused eyes meet his expectant ones. Apparently, it’s my turn to talk.
“It wasn’t even your date,” I say, only about 60 percent sure I’ve chosen an appropriate response.
The corner of his top lip jumps a little before he hits me with a smile that makes me feel way too childish and way too grown, all at once.
“Doesn’t matter. House rules growing up were you don’t leave till you’re full.
I woulda been dodging my mom’s slippers if she ever found out I sent you home hungry. ”
When the guy at the oven yells out our order, we make our way through the crowd. Ro towers over everyone at the counter as he grabs our tray.
“What is it with Black moms and slippers?” I ask.
“Plausible deniability,” he shouts over the crowd. “We stay scared, but ain’t nobody ever called CPS over a house shoe.”
Ro nods toward the front door and I follow him outside with a handful of napkins and the waters we already paid for.
The street is mostly empty and completely quiet. A stark difference from the chaos we left behind inside.
“This place is going off,” I say, choosing a bench for us. “Is it always like this?”
He nods, divvying up our food. “Worth it though. Best slice between here and the city.”
I make a face like we’ll see about that, but as soon as I bite into mine, my eyes close and an mmmm escapes from someplace deep.
Ro pumps the air, victorious. “What’d I say?”
I elbow him. “Or maybe I’m just drunk and hungry.” It’s not easy to play coy about a meal you’re actively inhaling, but I manage.
Ro shakes his head. “I’m still mad you went to an Italian joint and got salad. Would’ve had you pegged for the chicken parm.”
“My salad was delicious, thank you very much,” I say, yanking the cheese from my teeth to cut it. “But I do get down with some chicken parm. I just ordered whatever sounded quick.”
“Damn,” he says, “you knew the night was over before you even ordered?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure his night kept going,” I admit. “Just not with me.”
Ro chokes on a mushroom. And I am vindicated.
“No fucking way,” he says, in equal parts shock, horror, and excitement. An entirely appropriate response from start to finish.
I nod, sipping my water through a satisfied smile. “I can now officially check watching my date set up another date off my bingo card. I shouldn’t even be surprised. Guys are always finding new and inventive ways to fail.”
“That’s what you think?”
“It’s what I know. A fact, proven time after time, by every guy in the history of the world.”
“Not every guy?”
“Every single one.”
Ro leans back on the bench before abandoning his slice in the empty space beside him.
He crosses his arms in front of his chest but continues speaking before I can ask about his plans for that half-eaten slice.
“There had to be one who didn’t fuck up like that.
Somebody who at least made it through dinner. ”
My eyebrow raises suggestively. “I mean, I did my thing a little at school.”
Ro untucks his hand from his bicep, holding it up to stop me. “Nah, nah, nah, nah. I don’t need to hear about all that.”
“Well, if none of those guys count…” I’m not dying to confess my more casual exploits to Ro, but I don’t hate making him squirm. And squirm he does.
When I’ve had my fun, I start again. “There was one guy. I thought I was gonna marry him.” Ro looks intrigued, until I continue. “But I don’t know if that counts since half the student section thought Asher Hall was their boyfriend.”
“Asher,” Ro repeats. “Well, if that’s not a white guy…”
My barking laugh comes out in a rush. “Actually, he was mixed. And fine as hell. He was the captain of our high school football team, so my friend Liv and I used to go watch him play every Friday night. Never missed a game.” I smile at the memory.
It feels, somehow, like a lifetime ago and just yesterday, all at once.
“We were down so bad. Thought he was scoring touchdowns just for us. Out there every week, waiting for him to scale the bleachers to profess his love. In hindsight I realize I probably should’ve started our great love affair by introducing myself. ”
Ro cringes and I close my eyes, nodding at the ancient missed connection. But my smile fades in anticipation of the part that comes next.
“I never worked up the nerve. And this was all right around the time my dad left—on a Thursday. Which I only know because I remember I’d been crying for a full twenty-four hours by the time Liv came over.
I think she figured going to the game would help.
That had always been the highlight of our weeks.
But have you ever tried to paint a #28 over teenage girl tears? ”
At some point during my story, Ro righted his body. He’s leaning forward now, elbows digging into each parted thigh, at full attention. Like he doesn’t want to miss a word.
“She managed to get me to the game though. And she was right—everything was exactly the same as always. Asher was still playing his ass off and the girls in the stands were still losing their minds. It should’ve been comforting.
Seeing that not everything had changed. But it felt like another betrayal. ”
The familiar hollowing of my stomach transports me back to that night in the bleachers. Emptiness returning with the memory, even after all this time.
“I was pissed nobody else’s world had been destroyed.
So even though it looked the same, it felt completely different.
Standing there, like I was in a performance of a moment instead of actually living it.
Everything was in 2D: the set, the characters.
There was the hometown hero, who was always gonna go home with whichever cheerleader forgot her bloomers that week.
The girls in the stands, playing their supporting role of the adoring fans.
And I knew that was supposed to be my role too.
It always had been, but I didn’t want to play it anymore.
I didn’t want to be a part of this thing that suddenly felt like a lie, like everything else in my life—my dad, my family, my whole world.
It had all been a lie. I couldn’t be part of another one.
So I walked home alone and that was that. The fairy tale was over.”
Ro’s face reflects the weight of all the words I hadn’t meant to say, and I’m desperate to unsay them. To move past them, at least.
“Let’s just say that was the last time I ever pretended to enjoy football. And I never painted another guy’s number on a tearstained cheek. But I think we can all agree I’m probably better for it.”
Ro’s head tilts back and forth like he’s weighing it all out. “You and your dad all right now?”
“Uh, no.”
Over the years I’ve found that if you just leave it there, people rarely ask for more. They’re probably relieved not to have to listen to another story about another girl with daddy issues.
But Ro doesn’t rush to fill the silence or change the subject the way so many do. He’s not suddenly avoiding eye contact or looking at me like I’m broken. There’s no race to find that toxic silver lining to make it all better. He’s just waiting. Listening.
Which is probably the reason I keep going.
“The only way my mom could handle my dad leaving was to decide he’d made the decision under some sort of duress.
A temporary break from reality. She was so sure he’d come to his senses and come home.
But I knew he wasn’t coming back for us.
He’d woken up one day and wanted an entirely different life.
One that didn’t include me and Zola. And that hasn’t changed. ”
I hear truths tumbling from my mezcal-loosened lips, like this is normal dinner conversation. Like I’m not sharing my world and my wounds with him, when I hadn’t even planned to share this bench.
“Call it whatever you want—a midlife crisis, a psychotic break. Leaving was the first honest thing he did. Maybe ever. Who would choose to go back to living the lie?” My laugh is darker than I mean for it to be, but I guess it’s what’s real. “The first guy to ever ghost me.”
“And now you think that’s all guys.”
I fold what’s left of my slice into the grease-stained paper plate. Grateful to give my hands something to do other than sweat.
“But am I wrong?” I ask. “Take tonight. I tried it Zola’s way and still ended up on a dirty bench with a slice.” When I realize what I’ve said, I try to save it. “No offense,” I say, leaning into him in apology.
“Oh, I’m offended,” he says, shouldering me, so I know we’re okay. “But not by that comment.”