“Yup. Totally. I took one bite of that stuff and my taste buds didn’t know what to do with it. It was an explosion of flavors, not a pleasant one, everything trying to beat out the other. The sauce. The spices. The textures. It was terrible. I didn’t finish it.”

“Sounds shit,” Deke muttered.

“It was,” I confirmed. “Dad got something else and he didn’t finish his either. Then after dinner we went back to the hotel and hung out, watching British TV. Rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle. Hard to beat.”

That got me another grin but through it Deke just kept eating.

I kept blathering.

“There was a cooking show on, a famous chef, and at the end of his program, he had some celebrity in his restaurant kitchen for a cook off. The celebrity made something, a family recipe his mom made, and the chef made the same thing, except all chefy.”

Deke shoveled more chicken in and did it watching me.

I kept talking.

“After they were done, they took the two dishes out to random people in the restaurant and made them taste test it. The celebrity made a chocolate pie. The chef made a chocolate hazelnut tart with some special crust and a dollop of some fancy cream. The random people tasted it. Everyone picked the chocolate pie. When they did, Dad said, ‘Like that fuckin’ restaurant. Stupid. Never overcomplicate somethin’ that’s good from the start.’ And I knew Dad felt like me. It wasn’t us that didn’t deserve that food because we weren’t connoisseurs. It was a menu that was a mess because it was created by a chef who’d convinced himself he was an artist above everybody, but actually, he had something to prove. All art should be accessible, even if the people consuming it don’t quite get it. At the very least, they should get something out of it. No one is ever above it. If you think that, you’re the one who doesn’t get it.”

“Jussy,” Deke said softly, and I had a feeling he was getting me.

“But for Dad and me, it wasn’t even about that.”

Deke said nothing.

“We Lonesomes like simple pleasures,” I whispered.

At that, he sat back and dropped the plate to his lap, his expression changing from warm and interested to closed off.

And it hit me what I’d said.

“I’m not saying that you’re—” I started quickly.

“I get you, Justice,” he interrupted me.

I leaned toward him. “No, I think you—”

“Babe, you think I didn’t get you that first time you stomped out while I was buildin’ your fire pit in those silly-ass boots to bring me coffee?”

I leaned back, not certain what he was saying.

Fortunately, it was Deke’s turn to talk.

“There are folks who’d eat that chicken you ate, they wouldn’t like it, but they’d say it was phenomenal just so people wouldn’t think they didn’t get it. Then there are folks who’d convince themselves they like it just ’cause, if they admitted they didn’t, they think they’d be exposin’ the fact that their lips are not the lips of God who deserves that kind of shit and they’re sure their lips are the lips of God. And both those folks would look down on anybody who says they’d rather just have fried chicken because it is what it is. A whole lot better than some pretentious dish that tastes like shit.”

“Right,” I said warily.

“And you aren’t either of those folks,” he concluded.

I nodded. “I’m not. My dad wasn’t. My mom isn’t. Lacey appreciates good champagne and knows the difference between well vodka and top shelf. She’d still leave that restaurant and go get some fish and chips.”

“I hear you, gypsy,” Deke replied. “And what I hear from you sayin’ this to me is you’re worried we don’t fit.”

“No,” I denied carefully. “I know we fit. What I’m worried about is that you don’t agree.”

“You aren’t stupid,” he muttered and my stomach dropped.

While I experienced that alarming sensation, he leaned toward me, grabbed the plate that I’d lost interest in and took it with his, dumping them in his sink. He then opened his narrow fridge and came back with two fresh beers. He twisted the caps off both, flicking them across the space. One hit the sink. One glanced off the side and came to land on the small counter.

I watched all this with distraction, not liking where he’d left it, not sure what to say next.

He handed me a beer before he put his to his lips and took a long pull.

When he lowered it, he also lowered his eyes to mine.

It was then I figured I’d instigated our talk and now it was time to get into it and get past it.

He just didn’t say anything.

So I did.

“I am who I am, I do what I do and I can’t change that primarily because I don’t want to change that.”

That time his head twitched as his brows shot together. “You think I want you to change that?”

I was now seeing my mistake.

I should have exercised patience and let him lead.

It was time to backtrack at the same time tell him where I was at so he could (hopefully) springboard from there.

“Actually, I think I just want you to talk about whatever it was you wanted to talk about so we can get it out of the way and go back to being Deke and Justice, the new Deke and Justice that I like better which includes orgasms, nighttime pizza and Butterfinger Cups added to our togetherness and banter. So I started this trying to explain that I am who I am, I do what I do but I’m still just the woman you know. I’m not anything else and I want you to go in understanding that in an integral way so down the line it doesn’t come between us.”