I hold back any talk of eating her actual taco and study her, still wondering exactly how I should respond to her.
“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” she continues. “You eating my taco.”
Nice to know she caught her own reference. “Why not?”
“We’d be bad together.”
Fuck no, we would not. “Why do you say that?”
“I’m too old for you. I’m about to embark on my career while you’re still playing around, trying to figure out what you want to do with your life,” she says.
I take immediate offense to that. “You make me sound like a kid.”
She raises a brow, just before she shoves a chip in her mouth.
“I’m all man, baby,” I tell her, sounding like the biggest cheeseball ever, and she bursts out laughing.
“Oh, I’m sure you are, Caleb. But I’m not impressed by the size of your dick or all the moves you could make on my, ahem, taco,” she says, still laughing. “You’re still a kid up here.” She taps her temple.
“You’re judging me because I don’t know what I want to do with my life?” I started college with my major undeclared and my counselor kind of forced my hand. I figured business was just about as general as you could get, so I went for it.
Now I’ve taken all of these bullshit classes about international business and world economics or whatever the fuck, and I have no idea what I’m doing, or if it’s going to apply to what I end up doing with my life. I don’t envision myself as an international businessman. I can see Tony doing that, but not me.
Never me.
“No, I’m judging you for still acting like a kid,” she says, just as she takes a vicious bite out of her taco.
“I’m only twenty,” I remind her.
“And I’m almost twenty-three,” she returns.
“You’re, like, six months from that. Just like I’m only a few months from twenty-one.”
“I’m about to start teaching.”
“Student teaching,” I stress.
“Same diff.” She shrugs. “I’m pretty much done with college. I’m not getting any younger. I suppose I should look for someone…solid.”
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Husband potential,” she says plainly.
That word makes my balls shrivel up. Husband. Please. I am not ready for that. Not even close. And honestly? I don’t think she is either. She’s just trying to scare me or whatever.
“Have fun finding your husband then,” I say, taking a sip of my iced tea. “Hope you find him soon, so you two can settle down and eventually lead a very boring life together.”
“My life is not going to be boring,” she says, full of irritation.
“Right. Keep telling yourself that as you teach the same bunch of brats every day, year in and year out. Going home to your nice guy who wears a suit and glasses to work, who’s slightly balding, but not enough to be too obvious, and already has a paunch around the middle thanks to his desk job and a penchant for too many IPAs on the weekends,” I continue, warming up to the idea of Gracie’s future.
Not that I want Gracie to get married to some chubby fuck who bores her. It’s more that I can envision this for myself too. I’ll be the balding, chubby fuck with a penchant for too many IPAs on the weekends. This is my biggest fear.
Mediocracy.
I want something more out of life. Something big. Something meaningful. I just don’t know what it is yet.
“You’re a dick,” she says, her upper lip curled into a sneer. “What’s so wrong in finding comfort in the mundane, huh? So what if my husband is balding and has a slight paunch?”