“What’s wrong?” Quinton comes around the corner and even though we’ve been hanging around each other a lot recently, it’s still always a jolt to my system to see his hotness up close and personal.

Plus, even though his beard was never short, he’s stopped trimming it down and it just does things to me. Things. He’s younger than me by more than a couple of years, but the beard just makes him look like a grown-ass man. A zaddy, if you will. And I am here for it.

“Nothing really.” I walk to the cabinet that houses his dishes. “I just forgot to grab my Diet Coke on the way. I guess I can have water. My skin would probably appreciate that.”

“Water is the better choice.” He pulls two glasses down for us. “But I’m pretty sure I saw a Coke in my fridge earlier.”

“No.” I shake my head. I took the only one he had in there a few days ago. “I drank the one you had.”

“Check again.” He lifts his chin in the direction of his fridge. “Angela was over here yesterday, she might’ve left one.”

Angela.

Blah.

So I know that Quinton and I are never going to happen. I get it. But it’s one thing to know that and it’s another to know that the reason why is because his “type” is the complete opposite of me. And while Quinton says they aren’t together, I get the feeling that’s just a technicality. Even though I’m an adult who lives in the time of Rihanna and body positivity and self-love, she still reminds me of all the times I was ignored while my skinny, blue-eyed, blonde friends were the envy of all. When all I wanted was to be one of those mixed girls who looked like both parents. The loose wavy hair or pixie nose or green eyes or something. Anything so that I could see myself in the people around me.

I swear, when Quinton asked why I didn’t fully support him at first, he inadvertently opened a fucking floodgate in my mind. I’ve been remembering all of these things I thought I’d forgotten. I’m feeling things I’d learned to suppress. I hate feelings.

I pause in front of the fridge, squeezing my eyes shut to try to get myself under control and push everything to the back of my mind, where it belongs.

I open the door and sure enough, he’s right. How Angela is consistently forgetting these blows my mind. I can’t keep them stocked in my place. I almost feel bad for taking it.

But not that bad.

“You’re right.” I pull it out, not even waiting to get to the counter to crack it open. “Thanks.”

“Hey,” he says when I pull out the stool next to him. “You alright? You look . . . weird.”