he strolled back into the hall where I could see him, I had to ask. “What’s this, Spence?”
His eyes shifted up to me, brows meeting. “Dinner. I’m a point away from starving.”
“Is this why you asked for the list of ingredients for my family’s spaghetti?” Why did I not find anything strange about that the night before my birthday when he had asked for a list? “You plan to cook it?”
He shook his head, placing his phone on the counter. Next, he wiggled out of his coat and placed it over mine. Ashton opened a couple of cabinet doors until he pulled out a wine glass and a regular one. “No. I plan to watch you cook the meal I stole you from on Thanksgiving.” He moved on to another cabinet below, where he pulled out a bottle of wine and dark liquor I’d seen him drink before. Then he began looking through drawers. “I plan on watching to hopefully learn why an American—no, Black American—family would prepare spaghetti for a Thanksgiving meal.”
“Oh, you got jokes?” I couldn’t help the goofy smile on my face.
His hairy cheeks lifted and eyes narrowed. “Nope. I’m just waiting to learn a new culture.” His head cocked to the side when he pulled out a bottle opener. “And what the hell does chicken have to do with this dish?”
I nodded, feeling challenged. “Okay. Have a seat, South Orange boy. Let me learn you something, my Margaret Maureen McNabb’s style.”
I kicked off my shoes, toeing them into the hallway to get comfortable before getting started. Then it was my turn to rummage through the cabinets to find pots and pans. Though I shouldn’t have, I was blown away when finding ones that hadn’t been used. They were stainless steel, something I didn’t prefer, but I’d work with them.
“So, how many famous people do you know?” I asked, still on that Tyler Thomas kick.
Ashton poured the wine into the glass. “Not many.”
“Really?” I asked, still separating what I needed to warm the oil then put the breakfast foods into the fridge and freezer. “I don’t believe you.”
He chuckled while pouring the other drink. “Why?”
I caught his versed movements. He was confident and experienced beyond what I should have been comfortable with. Shit, I was out of my league! Ashton may have been twenty-two, but he had an old soul to him. Most guys and girls my age drank fruity, mixed drinks or Hennessy from the bottle. Not him. He poured wine I couldn’t name and Courvoisier, what the rappers rhymed about.
Suddenly, I felt lightheaded, but just for a moment. A wave of giddiness washed over me out of nowhere. It made me question my sobriety. I hadn’t even taken a drink of anything yet. I felt warm all over, and…safe. I felt safe and welcomed.
“Because,” I finally answered, fighting not to leave this mental and emotional headspace. I wanted to be here. God, don’t let me blow it. “your dad was a freakin’ millionaire. He was Mr. B-Way Burger, a Black man in America with a white man’s privilege.”
“Ahhhh!” He smiled, demeanor sound, collected. “Someone was paying attention to Thomas earlier.”
There was that giddy feeling again. I nodded hard, trying to measure the oil I was pouring into the pot. “How could I not. He made me feel similar to Brielle at her concert. Brielle made me expect to be successful with fighting. Like I could go far if I work for it and…see it. Today, Tyler Thomas made me feel like I had to see it. Like it’s my responsibility to everyone before me and behind me to dream and achieve.” Ashton handed me the glass of wine. “I feel good to be Black.”
“That’s the beginning of privilege,” he murmured, taking a seat at the bench near the hallway. “It happens when you leave your city or small town where there’s little opportunity. It’s when you have the advantage of receiving the energy of, and possibly blueprint from, successful people, and realize you can achieve at a high level, too.” His eyes slanted in that way they did when talking to me in bed.
“I do!” I admitted while preparing to clean the chicken. “I feel like this fighting thing can really happen. Like I can really show the world I’m unbeatable.” He nodded before taking a sip of his drink, total attention on me and not the buzzing of his phone. “That’s your phone.”
“I know.” His voice soft, eyes set on me. “It’s my birthday.