Page 13 of The Cost of Love

“You’re an artist? That’s amazing. What do you paint?” I place my hand on his knee, fingers trying to comfort him alongside my words.

His chest starts to move again as he lays a hand on top of mine. I expected something more devious for all his hesitance, but clearly something in his life makes him think this love is not okay.

“I wouldn’t go as far as to say I am an artist, but I really love still life and portraits. Painting people and items as I see them. I started with photography, actually, but I couldn’t always capture the moment.”

“Of course you’re an artist. Creating art makes you one. Do you sell your work?”

He frowns and looks down at his hands. “It’s just for me.”

As confident as he seems, I can tell he is pulling back a layer of himself to reveal a hidden version of the man everyone else sees. For some reason, he trusts me with this information, showing me a real side to him. It makes me feel touched enough that I want to give him a piece of myself back.

“I’m passionate about cooking. I went to culinary school for a short time, and would love to open a restaurant one day.” Sharing my greatest desire, I let him see the dreamer underneath the realist tasked to face each day.

His eyes meet mine again, face lighting up with interest.

“Why were you working front of the house at that event? You should be in the kitchen.” The hand, currently on top of mine, squeezes a little, pushing all his enthusiasm into the grip.

“I didn’t finish. Some things came up in my second year, so I don’t have the qualifications. I will go back one day. Until then, I work the jobs I can get.” I shrug one shoulder, brushing off the fact that my dream is on hold. He doesn’t need to see all the heartache and fear from that decision.

Not buying my nonchalance, he stares at me like he’s expecting more. “Maybe it’s naïve to ask, but what’s stopping you now?”

I hoped I would get through the whole date without having to mention the three kids I’m raising, but how else do I answer that question? After all, it was them needing me that required me to drop out and get a second job.

My mum, incapable of keeping her shit together for more than a couple of years, fell off the wagon right into a drug den with her latest man. She didn’t care that the system would not only split them up, but put them in homes already overflowing with other kids. Gabby was only four, still young enough to get placed with a family that would want to keep her, while Imani was old enough to end up in a voluntary home. I was only nineteen, but what else was I supposed to do?

“Life,” I say, hoping he will leave it at that.

He does, looking out the window. “We’re here,” he announces before opening the door.

With nowhere to pull over, the driver lets us out in the middle of the street. All down the road, food trucks are stationed against the sidewalk, serving the swells of people. The smell of the different foods hits my nose, causing my stomach to rumble and my mouth to water. I don’t know where to look, curiosity pulling me in every direction. Alexander grabs my hand and guides me into the crowd, leading me like he knows exactly where he is going.

I can’t help but wonder what people think of us as we go by. While interracial couples are becoming more common; a conventionally hot man dating a plus-sized woman is rare. There is this one couple on social media, but no other real examples to go by. Yet, here we are in real life: a tall, magazine-cover-qualifying man and a short, big woman, holding hands.

Dressed up like this, I look like the perfect snack to his glass of milk. But that doesn’t stop people from staring like we don’t make sense.

Despite the fact that I learned to be mostly comfortable in my skin in my teenage years, when people were cruel and unforgiving, I have never tested those boundaries in adulthood. Walking with him in this crowd, I might get my first chance to.

He comes to a stop outside of a bright pink truck. A taco in a sari is the mascot painted on the side of the ordering window. The line is long, but Alexander is looking ahead like it is worth it.

“This place is so much better than anything we could have ordered at that restaurant,” he says.

Letting go of my hand, he lifts his and points in the direction of the menu.

“I’d recommend their butter chicken tacos or tikka masala burrito, but honestly, anything you get will be good.” His eyes light up as he looks back in my direction.

I go to ask him a question, but before I get a chance to, a blonde woman walks closer and answers as if he were talking to her.

“I’ll have to try those. Would you get the mango lassi or the horchata?” She curls a piece of her hair between her fingers, smiling at him like he is the second coming of Jesus. Closer than a stranger has a right to be, she leans into him, making her interest evident.

Beautiful in the way that people expect girls to be beautiful, she is petite, perfectly symmetrical, and model tall. Ignoring my presence, her gray eyes are focused solely on him, waiting for him to acknowledge her. I try not to let my inner critic take hold while I wait to see what he says.

“Both are great.” His words are clipped and straight to the point as he barely glances her way.

He looks at me instead, making it clear at the very least that we are here together. I lower my shoulders, thinking that would be enough, paying her no further mind as we move forward. But she follows us, staying right at his side.

“So you have been here often, then?” she persists, clearly not taking the hint.

Still looking between me and the truck, he shakes his head as if to say, ‘Can you believe this?’ as we both wait for her to walk away.