“I don’t know either. What I do know is that you can’t make everyone happy. We expected this. There are still people who don’t like Oprah. Oprah, Quinton! If the world can’t agree on Oprah being the best, then there is no hope for any of us.”

This is the pep talk I tell myself on almost a daily basis, but it doesn’t seem to give him the same reassurance it gives me.

He sits up straight and meets my gaze again. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, it’s literally my job.” I drop the empty bean pod in the empty bowl next to the edamame. Shoving food in my mouth is one thing, talking with it in my mouth is another. I’m not a monster.

“I’d be blind not to see that a lot of people are pissed with my kneeling and that’s fine. Like you said, I can’t make everyone happy. But you made it pretty clear in the beginning that you weren’t my biggest supporter and I’m not sure I ever really understood why. Does it still make you mad?”

His mouth is saying one thing—that he’s curious and wants my opinion—but his eyes are saying something else. They are begging me to agree with him, pleading for me to tell him that I understand.

But I can’t.

“Honestly?”

“Yeah.” He fidgets with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I won’t get mad, promise.”

I hope not.

“It never made me mad.” He opens his mouth to cut me off, probably thinking I’m blowing smoke up his ass right now. I hold a hand up and keep going. “It made me uncomfortable. I was just starting this new job . . . my dream job. I get why you’re doing it. I understand your cause and what you want to accomplish and I support that. I even respect it. But for me, personally and selfishly, it put me in a really tough position. Siding with my boss and keeping my job, or siding with you and the important cause you’re supporting. My job was kind of my bubble protecting me from the real world and you popped it.”