“Before this trip ends. Before we go home. I promise.”
“Promises don’t carry a lot of currency with me, Maurice.”
“I know. But that’s all I got right now.” He pulled his hands from his pockets, letting them hang at his sides. Vulnerable. Open. “I’m asking you to trust that I’m not trying to hide anything from you.”
A breath. Another. The lights kept blinking. The music kept playing. The city continued to vibrate around them while they stood there trying to figure out what they were doing.
“I don’t do one-way streets anymore,” Monique finally said. “I stopped giving pieces of myself to folks who won’t give back.”
“That’s fair. Can we start over?”
She nodded. Adjusted her bag again. “You hungry?”
“What?”
“Back there. We didn’t eat.” She started walking back toward the restaurant. “Come on. I paid for it. Might as well not waste it.”
Maurice followed, trying to process the shift. “Just like that?”
“Just like what?”
“You’re done being mad?”
She stopped. Turned. “I’m still mad. But I’m also hungry. Besides, you promised me later, and for some reason, I believe you. I can be mad and hungry at the same time.” She kept walking. “That’s allowed.”
Inside the restaurant, their food sat cold on the table. The woman with the grease-spotted apron saw them come back, shook her head like they were children, and took the plates away. Brought back fresh ones, hot.
“Gracias,” Monique said.
The woman patted her shoulder and said something in Spanish that made Monique laugh and say something back.
“What’d she say?” Maurice asked.
“She said lovers always fight on the first date.” Monique picked up her alcapurria. “I told her this isn’t a date.”
“What’d she say to that?”
“She said I was lying.” Monique bit into the fritter and chewed. “Maybe she’s right.”
Maurice stilled, turning that over. A date? So what did that make them? Make him? He’d spent years studying people but never thought to take notes on himself.
He picked up a fritter and bit into it. “This is good.”
Monique preened a little bit. “You betta recognize. I don’t play about good food.”
It was hot, spicy, greasy, and perfect. They ate in silence for a while. Comfortable silence this time. The kind that didn’t need filling.
“So,” Monique said, licking grease from her thumb, “Tommie’s your best friend?”
“Since we were eleven or twelve.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Yeah.”
“Knowing him, he saw you and he just decided you were friends.”
Maurice smiled. “Pretty much.”