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That one was his favorite!
“As you know,”—I flung an arm toward his kick-A chesterfield—“you’re allowed to have nice things,” I stated snottily.
“Yeah?” he asked.
But at his new tone, all of a sudden, my chest started hurting.
I powered through it and whispered, “Yeah.”
“Fuck it, who cares,” he said and dumped my nutribullet in the box. “We’ll get new for here. I’m gonna start packing shit in the truck.”
“Javi,” I called as he began to move away.
He turned to me.
“What just happened?” I asked.
“Nothin’, Harlow. Let’s just get this fuckin’ show on the road so we can get your shit in, go out and buy what we need to buy, and then maybe relax for an hour before I gotta cart your ass to Mace and Stella’s so you women can do your sit-down with Nancy.”
Before, he seemed annoyed.
Now he seemed angry.
I moved to him and put my hand on his chest. “This should be fun, doubling up on our stuff.”
“It would be, if you didn’t fight me every fuckin’ inch about shit that doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” I told him.
“For shit’s sake, why?” he demanded.
“Because you should have nice, new stuff,” I said.
“I hear you. But for every single thing, I don’t need nice, new stuff.”
“Okay, then I need you to let me let you have nice, new stuff for every single thing, because I need you to have nice, new stuff.”
“Then what happens?” he asked.
“Sorry?” I asked back, not understanding him.
“Babe, life kicks you in the teeth.”
Oh man.
“That happens to you, you’ll land on your feet,” he went on. “You just will. Because your crew will look after you and because you’re you. You work hard to make shit work. And even when shit isn’t working, you bounce around making smoothies and get on with it. That isn’t how it happens for everybody.”
Oh man!
“You have a crew too,” I noted.
“I know.”
“And a nice house. And a good job,” I continued.
“Harlow—”
The uber-clean kitchen. The care with the washcloth. Only a few fabulous kicks displayed on his wall.