He quickly adds, “That was a good thing. I kind of liked it. But I figured you would only go with nerd-type guys. So . . . I stayed away. And then this track thing came up . . . I thought I could hit you up and get what I wanted with no problem because I was over how I felt about you.”

“And are you . . . over it?” I ask, looking at the ground.

“Dancing with you was kind of nice, and back there in the basement, I pushed you to talk because I like knowing what you think. Is that all right?”

I shrug as the blood rushes to my face. I’m not sure what causes the chill down my spine: the sheer bliss from his words or the wind that has just picked up. Either way, I’m cold and shivering.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I lie.

He laughs. “No, you’re not. C’mon, I have an idea,” he says, taking my hand in his. Although it’s cold, his hands feel warm as they cover mine. There is a real possibility that these might be the last few moments of my life—that is, if my heart doesn’t stop racing.

But before we take off, I stop him. “Wait . . .”

He looks at me, not sure what I’m about to say.

“You know what you said about me using you?” I ask.

“Yeah . . .”

I mumble, “Well-I-guess-I-was-kind-of-using-you-or-whatever.”

“An apology should actually have the word ‘sorry’ in it. I’m just say’n,” he replies, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

“Sorry.”

He laughs. “Fine, I’ll take it, but that was kind of weak. Next time I give you a heartfelt apology, I’m gonna need you to reciprocate.”

“Oh, you think you cute?” I ask.

“I am.”

Yeah, he is . . .

He takes me to a hole-in-the-wall café on the east side, named Mama Jay’s. I take a peek through the windows. It’s the kind of place where you can touch the walls if you stretch both your arms out. The leather stools were red once; now they are a faded blush color. There’re held together by duct tape and prayer. The menu is written on the wall behind the counter. There’s only five items.

“I’ve walked by here a few times, but I’ve never been in,” I admit.

“The food is slap-yo-mama good.”

I look at the sign on the door. “It’s also closed.”

Devonte takes a set of keys out of his pocket and opens the door. He tells me his uncle owns the place and sometimes he comes here to help out. He holds the door open, and we enter. It’s small but has a nice laid-back, homey vibe. It reminds me of the diner in my favorite August Wilson play, Two Trains Running.

“What’s good here?” I ask.

“Everything. But what I brought you here for is my world-famous hot chocolate.”