“Maybe, but that might have more to do with you than me too.” He looks like he wants to say something else when his phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket, looking at the screen for a split second before his shoulders tense up and he swipes his finger across the screen, putting it to his ear. “Angela.” His deep voice caresses each syllable of her name. “Is everything okay?”

Ugh. Angela. I’ve bumped into her a few times since our first run-in outside of Quinton’s house and every time she manages to seem even more beautiful and put together than before. Her long, naturally straight, perfectly highlighted blonde hair taunts me. Her cute little upturned nose is almost identical to the one I dreamed of when I begged my dad for a nose job. She’s tall, skinny, and has curves that fit perfectly in her probably size-zero skirts.

And the thought of her makes the embarrassment from the other night rise up once more. I mean really, what was I thinking?

“Okay,” he says and I tune back into his conversation. “I’m at dinner with a friend, but I’ll check in as soon as I get home. Alright . . . bye.”

I ignore the way him calling me a friend stings even more knowing Miss Perfect was on the other end of the phone. “Everything alright?”

“That? Oh yeah.” He fidgets with the wrapped silverware and chopsticks on the table. “It’s all good.”

“Glad to hear that.” I tread carefully with this subject; it’s not one I love talking about considering our recent history. “How long have you two been together?”

“What?” His fingers freeze on the torn edges of the napkin he’s fussed with. “No, we aren’t together.”

I want to roll my eyes and argue, but it’s not my place . . . at all. Also, Bobby approaches our table with a tray full of food.

“Rainbow roll for the lady.” He sets the long plate covered with the colorful roll in front of me.

“Yum.” I fight to keep my eyes from rolling to the back of my head. “Thank you.”

He puts Quinton’s plate down in front of him. “Spider roll and salmon roll, neither with avocado for you.”

“My man,” Quinton says as he rubs his hands together like a super villain ready to take over the world.

And if I just heard him correctly, a villain he is. “No avocado?” I eye his plate with keen interest. “Why not?”

“I hate it,” he says like he hasn’t just lost all of his credibility for being a good judge of anything in life.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, giving him the chance to change his answer to the right one.

“Hate it,” he repeats.

“Oh my god.” My chopsticks fall out of my hand and I turn to see if Bobby is nearby.