“Quinton, no, you know that’s not what I meant, I just—”

He cuts me off.

“No, I get it.” The smile on his face is colder than the snow falling on us and causes every muscle in my body to tense. The Quinton I’ve gotten to know isn’t in front of me anymore. And I’m the one who pushed him away. “You know, when you told me how my taking a knee made you uncomfortable because it made you reevaluate the way you saw the world, I dropped it. It was already clear to me you had some childhood issues I had no business touching, but I hoped it meant you’d start looking at yourself and how you view things.”

At this point, I know he’s not going to forgive me, and explaining myself is probably useless, but he has me confused with someone else if he thinks I’ll just let him hit below the belt. “Seriously? I get you’re mad, you have every right to be. But that’s not okay. I don’t have childhood issues.”

“You don’t?” He steps in closer, not needing space anymore now that it works for him. “Is that why you practically shove your fingers in your ears and close your eyes anytime anyone points out racism to you? I told you what Mahler was. I told you how racist and disgusting he was, and you refused to believe me. And still, here you are, lying to me, planning a fucking fundraiser for a guy who does nothing but spew racist shit every single day?”

“Just because I don’t like to label everyone as a racist doesn’t mean I have issues.” The trembling in my hands has morphed from trembling to full-out shaking, but I don’t know if it’s because I’m so angry or cold. “How is me not wanting to throw that terrible label on everyone a bad thing?”