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“I’m not.” He takes a calming breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.” He rubs his hand over his jaw. “I’m not running away. I came here because I need time to think.”
“And write,” I add.
“Yes.” He sits down. “I need time to write.”
“And blue isn’t your favorite color.”
“No.” He gives me a slight smile.
“Orange?”
“Nope.”
“Yellow?”
“Yellow?Is thatanyone’sfavorite color?”
“I don’t know. Probably. Why? What’s wrong with yellow?”
“It’s the color of pee.”
“And sunflowers. People like sunflowers. Yellow is cheery.”
“But not my favorite color.”
“I give up. What is it?”
“Black.”
“Black?”I scrunch up my nose.
“What’s wrong with black?”
“It’s depressing. It’s the color of death. And darkness.”
“You asked me my favorite color and now you’re making fun of it?” he asks like he’s offended. “You see why I don’t answer questions?”
“Sorry. You’re right. I should accept your answer without judgment, even though just seconds ago, you passed judgment on yellow, which could bemyfavorite color.”
“Is it?”
“No. I like red.”
“Red,” he repeats. “The color of passion.”
“And roses. Hearts.”
“So you’re a romantic?”
“I used to be, but then I saw my dad break my mom’s heart and ever since then, I’ve kind of lost hope in love and romance. It’s nice to read about or see in movies, but in real life? I’m not sure it exists.”
“That’s a cynical view.”
“Do you believe it exists?”
“I think it does, but I personally haven’t seen it. I don’t think my parents were in love.”
“Ever?”
