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“I guess it must be nice to have your meals prepared for you, but you’re still missing out.”
He lifts a doubtful eyebrow, then says, “I have other interests.”
“Like what?”
“The club.”
“And?”
“Watching my alma mater crush Cal in football.”
“You wish.”
“The only thing better is beating Stanford or ‘SC.”
“We’re agreed on that. But football is only once a week. What do you like to do for fun the rest of the time? What’s your favorite thing to do?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“You’ve got to have a favorite activity,” I urge.
“Sure, but you don’t want to know what it is.”
“Well, if you put it that way, I totally want to know. Unless it’s beating up defenseless puppies. I’d have to report you to the authorities for that.”
He stares at me, making me shift in my seat.
“Seriously, what is it?” I prod.
He turns his gaze back to the road. “Like I said, you don’t want to know.”
Damn. What could it possibly be?
“So, it’s either gross, illegal, or embarrassing,” I muse aloud.
“Or maybe I just don’t want another guilt trip.”
Fair enough. I drop the subject.
“What’s your internship with?”
I perk up. “It’s this coalition that’s trying to end poverty in the county.”
“Do-gooder stuff.”
“Yes! And they’re doing such cool initiatives. They’re involved in urban farming, food as medicine—”
“What’s that?”
I explain to him how a lot of chronic illness in this country can be attribute to lifestyle choices, how low-income families don’t have easy access to basic things like fresh produce, and how processed foods can contain ingredients that disrupt gut health. By the time we pull up to my apartment, I’m only partway through my spiel.
I take a break to comment on his good parking karma. Usually it’s not so easy finding parking in this part of Berkeley. As we get out of the car, two guys I know from my stats class walk by.
“Sweet ride,” one of them says.
“That the kind of accolade you like getting with your Porsche?” I ask as Darren pulls the grocery bags from the trunk.
“I bought the Panamera because I like the car,” Darren replies, walking over to where I stand next to the car. “I don’t give a shit what other people think of it. And, contrary to what you might believe, I don’t need a fancy car to compensate for anything.”
“Oh, really?” I tease.
Grocery bags in one hand, he braces his free arm against the car, enclosing me. It’s just like the moment in Trader Joe’s, only there’s no salt behind me.
His voice is low and husky, making my pulse skitter. “Really.”
I suddenly remember I forgot the pepper.
