“Panda,” I reply immediately.
“What else?” Kenan asks. “Mumble, mumble, mumble.”
“Oh, my God.” I laugh. “You sound like somebody’s granddaddy.”
He stills and lifts one imperious brow. “And you sound like a millennial.”
“I am a millennial,” I fire back, thoroughly enjoying myself. “Aren’t you?”
“Uh . . . barely. Technically, yes, but my mom calls me an old soul. I identify older, I think.” He tilts his head, considering me through a veil of long, thick lashes. “How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? A little older than August?”
He nods, assessing me. I know without make-up and with my hair in these two braids, I look about fifteen.
“And how old are you?” he asks.
“Twenty-five.”
“Shit.” He slips his hands into his pockets and frowns, biting one corner of his mouth. “I’m thirty-six.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” he says. “Eleven years.”
“Does it really matter?” I grin and bite my thumbnail. “I mean we are just friends.”
After a few moments, he relinquishes an answering smile. “Right,” he replies. “And friends don’t let friends listen to crap music.”
“Here we go.” I put my hands on my hips and throw my head back. “Hit me with all your oldies but goodies.”
“You little . . .” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Mumble rap is not music, Lotus.”
“It totally is,” I defend on principle more than because I actually like mumble rap. I just enjoy a good debate. “It’s an emerging subgenre.”
“Did you read that in Vibe magazine?”