“This is good.”
“So you like Mexican,” he says.
“Empanadas especially.” I eye the last one in the Styrofoam tray on the marble island centered in Grady’s kitchen.
“The way you’re looking at that empanada is very Lord of the Flies. Like I might have to fight you for it. Like it’s the conch.”
“So are you Piggy in this analogy?” I pour false indignation into my voice
and prop my fists on my hips.
“I ain’t Jack.”
I snatch the last empanada before he has a chance to, and he throws his head back laughing, shoulders shaking.
“To be so skinny, you put it away,” he says once he’s finished laughing at me.
“Skinny?” I glance at my legs in the cut-offs. “I’m not skinny.”
“Okay, do you prefer slim?”
“I guess you’re all ‘I like big butts and I cannot lie.’”
“You know, that’s the only hip-hop reference you’ve gotten right all day, and it’s from like ninety-two.”
“That’s not fair.” I clear away the cartons and paper from our delivery meal. “If I ask you about songs I like, you probably wouldn’t know them, either.”
“Wrong. I would shut you down.” He takes his phone out of his pocket and puts it on the counter. “Check my playlists.”
I look at him for an extra few seconds, and he tips his head in invitation toward the phone.
“Go for it.”
I sigh but grab his phone and scroll through his songs. Coldplay, Alanis Morissette, Jay Z, Usher, Justin Timberlake, Lil Wayne, U2, Talib Kweli, Jill Scott.
“Carrie Underwood?” I glance up from his phone to meet his wide grin.
“First of all, the girl’s fine as hell. Second of all, who doesn’t like ‘Jesus, Take the Wheel’?”
“Oh, my God! You’re ridiculous.”
“We’ve talked a lot about my musical tastes today, but not about yours. I showed you mine, now show me yours.”
I will not think about him showing me his. I wonder, not for the first time today, if I packed my good vibrators.
“Let’s just say my playlist would be a lot less varied,” I offer, dissembling all thoughts of the muscular physique hidden beneath his clothes.
“White bread, huh?” His knowing smile should irritate me, but I find myself answering with one of my own.
“And what would you call yours?”
“Multi-grain.”
I shake my head, dispose of the trash, and head back into the living room. I sit on the couch but don’t make a move to pick up my laptop. When I look up, there’s uncertainty on his face.
“Are you gonna work or . . .” His question dangles in the air waiting for me to catch it.
“No, someone told me even Ivy League should relax on spring break.”