“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, despite telling myself that his opinion doesn’t matter.
He pushes out his lips. “Well, when you were telling me about your work earlier, besides the money, you didn’t seem to like it that much. Just saying.”
“Because it’s work!” I exclaim. “How many people truly love their job?”
“True, true. Not many,” Donovan answers. “And do you know why? Because there’s too many people out there, yeah, that are not doing what they really want to do. They stick around in a poxy job they hate for years. For what? To buy a big yard and to pay the bills? Then they wonder why they have a midlife crisis when they reach their fifties.” He kisses his teeth. “Nah, bruv. Not me.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, Donovan. So what have you been up to these last ten years?”
“Living life, innit.” Donovan spreads his hands, and I snort. “Did a bit of traveling for a while. Brazil. China. Costa Rica. Then I went into the recruitment sector, you know. For the first, what, four, five years, I was helping to recruit old white men into pharmaceutical jobs. Hated that, Yinka. Hated it. The money was good, though. Not gonna lie. Then after a while, I was like, nah man. This ain’t for me. I’m a sick recruiter. Got the charm and ting, innit.” He smiles. “But like you, I had a thing for charity work. A’ight, so, boom.” He claps. “Here’s what I do now. I place talented people in big charities. Save the Children. Amnesty . . . In fact, Sanctuary is one of our clients—that’s how I ended up volunteering for them. Pay isn’t as great but I’m much happier. Much, much happier.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re doing something you like,” I say.
“If you ever fancy a career change . . .”
“Nice try, but I’m cool. Besides, you’d be the last recruiter that I’d go to.”
“Excuse you!” He looks shocked again. Good.
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you remember?”
“Remember what?” Donovan looks around, confused.
“How you treated me!” I exclaim. “You were a bit of a bully back then.”
“A bully?” Donovan laughs, and I notice his dimples.
“Yes.” I stand my ground. “You were so . . . opinionated.”
“So I annoyed you?” He suggests.
“That too.” I fold my arms.
Donovan finds this funny. “Elaborate.”
“Well, for starters—” I reach for my mental list. “You always made a big fuss when I wasn’t familiar with something.”
“Like what?” He recoils.
“Like how to dice an avocado,” I point out. “How was I supposed to know that there’s a technique?”
“Really?” Donovan scratches his head. “Man, I can’t remember.” He laughs. “Well, I hope you can dice an avocado now.”
I roll my eyes. “Aaand you never let things go. Remember when I told you that I hadn’t heard of that hip hop group, Tribal Quest?”
Donovan is in uproar. “Oh, yeah! And they’re called A Tribe Called Quest,” he points out. “Terrible. Anyways, anything else?” He cocks his head and his smirk annoys me so much that I spit out my next answer.
“My faith,” I say passionately. “You always challenged me about my faith. In fact, why did you do that? Why couldn’t you just accept that I believe in God?”
Donovan makes a hissing sound followed by an expression that I do not like. “I swear, man. You Christian folks are naive.”
I narrow my eyes. “We are not doing this again.”
“I tell you now,” he carries on anyway. “Believing in God is a one-way trip to poverty. Unless you’re a pastor, of course.”
I breathe out. “Donovan. We’re adults. There’s no point in us getting into an argument. Let’s just accept that I’m a believer and—”
“I’m the one going to hell. Yeah, yeah. I know.” He laughs sarcastically.
“No!” I tut. “I was going to suggest that we leave it like that—”
“But isn’t your job as a Christian to share your faith? Yeah, Christians are very happy to preach to you, as long as you shut up and listen. But when we find holes in the Bible and ask them tough questions, all of a sudden, we’re the troublemakers—”
“Donovan, I’m really not in the mood for this conversation.”
“But you’d be happy to have one if I was a person of faith, right? Exactly. You proved my point. And what is so great about having faith, anyway? Give me one advantage you folks have. Because if having faith is so great, yeah, then tell me, why are there just as many sick religious people as there are nonreligious? Surely religious people would have an advantage, right? Given, you know, they believe in God and whatnot. Huh? Yinka? You don’t have an answer to that, do you? Oh, please don’t say, ‘It’s part of God’s will’ or whatever BS you churchy folks like to say. I swear, you Christians will say anything—”
“Do you know what?” I spring to my feet, and a rush of pins and needles declares war on my legs. “I’m out of here. What you want is a debate, not a conversation. Well, guess what? I’m not going to allow you to drain my energy.”
I turn to walk away, but my left foot gets caught under the crate.
“Watch your step!” Donovan cries.
But it’s too late.
I stagger forward, arms twisting. Thankfully, I don’t fall flat on my face. But my foot pays the price.
“You all right?” Donovan says. He doesn’t even try to hold back his smirk.
“I’m fine!” I retort. Sweet Jesus, my foot!
I swing around and hold my chin high, praying that no one else saw what happened. And with the greatest effort I can muster, I stomp away. Well, hobble.
“So immature,” I mutter as I ease myself down onto the blanket where the teens were leaflet-stuffing. “He has not changed one bit. Not one bit.” Surreptitiously, I take off my shoe, roll down my sock, and rub my throbbing foot.
Then I remember.
Alex!
I reach for my phone and tut. Why hasn’t he messaged me yet? I’m about to tap on the call button when Donovan plonks himself right in front of me.
“Go away!” I tell him.
“How’s your foot?” He nods to my exposed ankle.
“I came here to get away from you.” I roll up my sock and put on my shoe.
“I came here to apologize,” he says, showing me his dimples.
“You hardly look sorry.”
Donovan amends his expression. “Okay. How about now?”
I blink at him. “You look as though you’re doing a bad impression of Eeyore.”
He laughs. “Okay, but really—I want to apologize—hey!”
I’ve jumped to my feet and answered my phone.
“Hey, Alex!” I sound super-excited, but whatever.
“Yinka, I got your message—”
“Great. Where are you?” I grin like a loon as I crane my neck.
There’s a drawn-out pause.
“Actually,” he eventually says, and there’s a sick feeling in my stomach. “Yinka, I’m stuck at work. I’m hoping to leave in the next twenty minutes, so I might still make it. Only thing is . . . I forgot your jacket. If you like, I can go home and get it. But I don’t want to keep you waiting.”