It’s one thing to force me to examine my own internal biases and to downplay his girlfriend situation, but it’s another thing completely to disrespect avocados. Everything else we can discuss later, but this? I will not stand for it.

“Just so you know, as soon as we leave here, we’re going to a Mexican restaurant and I’m forcing you to eat guacamole.” I pull out my phone to google the closest restaurant, even though my stomach is growling and I’m starving. “I can’t work with a person who doesn’t like avocados or guacamole. Unacceptable.”

Priorities.

Twenty-three

“I brought food!” I yell as soon as I walk into Quinton’s house.

I kick off my shoes and push them against the wall—the jolt of the freezing-cold cement floors never fails to shock me—before I head into his kitchen with the plastic bag filled with more tacos than he could possibly eat.

Or at least, I hope. He’s like a bottomless pit.

But since he told me he didn’t like avocados and I force-fed him guacamole, I just keep bringing them—and ignoring the fact that my pants are legitimately starting to get too tight from constantly eating them with him.

However, can I just say that I find it incredibly unfair that he’s an actual endless pit and still looks as though he has no body fat. Yeah, sure, he works out like seven days a week. Whatever. The point still stands. It’s bullshit.

“Did you get guacamole?” He shouts this ridiculous question from somewhere in this massive, cold, echoey house of his and misses the theatrical rolling of my eyes.

“Come on, Howard. I thought we talked about this.”

When we stopped by the Mexican restaurant after sushi, I ordered chips and guac. When the waiter brought it to the table, it was like dealing with a fucking toddler. But when he finally tried it, his eyes lit up and he devoured the entire bowl. Apparently his mom used to always make face masks out of avocado when he was growing up and his aversion came from that.

And that’s how I successfully converted him to the Church of Avocado. It is my proudest accomplishment to date.

I pull the tacos out of the bag and line them up on his pristine white countertops that are only pristine because he never cooks. And considering my life goal is to never have to worry about taking the meat out of the freezer and only cook when I want to—which is basically never—he’s living my fucking dream.

I’m only a little bitter.

I look at everything lined up on the counter and there is one very noticeable thing missing.

“Crap!” I meant to stop at 7-Eleven on the way over here, but started to listen to my favorite podcast and totally forgot.