He nods and offers me a cigarette. I look at it and smile, recalling the list I made on the day I moved in.
The New Maddie
Drinks alcohol when offered Always says yes to social events Wears new clothes
Cooks new food
Has different experiences （Travel? Brunch?） Tries weed or cigarettes at least once （but don’t get addicted!） Wears make-up
Goes on dates
Is not a virgin
“No thank you,” I answer. “I don’t smoke.”
“Neither do I.” He lights a cigarette and draws from it. “It’s a nervous habit. Do you mind?” He gestures to the step.
“Go ahead.”
He sits beside me.
“Why are you nervous?” I ask.
“I have an important meeting tomorrow.”
“It’ll be fine.”
He turns to me and that easy smile I remember slides seamlessly into place. “How do you know that?”
“I don’t, but it’s nice to hear, isn’t it?”
He nods. “You’ve done a great job with this party, by the way; Em was just telling us and Cam was quick to acknowledge how much of it was down to your execution.”
I frown. “Eugh, Jo must think I’m such a loser. We … we’re not really that close.”
“No, she was touched,” Sam assures. “But if you’re not that close, why do so much?”
I shrug. “I had amends to make, plus I like making an effort for other people. Turns out, I’m a bit of a people pleaser. It’s something I’m working on. But I just like the idea of people being happy because I know how great it is to feel happy, if that makes any sense.”
He draws from his cigarette. “Are you generally sad?”
I look at him and he doesn’t turn away. “Yes,” I answer. “Sometimes I’m really sad. It sounds like a childish word to use and ‘depressed’ is the adult equivalent, but for me ‘sad’ works best.”
“What causes it?”
I’m surprised by his genuine interest and once again hear those words from Mum about keeping our matters private. “Sometimes, nothing,” I tell him. “It’s been a rough couple of months. I got fired from a job I hated, was dumped by my boyfriend after finding out he was someone else’s boyfriend, and then, as you already know, my dad died.”
“Yes, I remember. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Want to trash-talk the ex-boyfriend?” he offers. “What was his name?”
“Ben.”
“He sounds like a dick.”
I shrug. “It was my first real relationship, if I can call it that. I didn’t love him, but it hurts knowing I got a different man than the one his actual girlfriend did. She got the better version of him; he gave her the better version of him. I don’t see why I’m good but not good enough,” I say quietly. “I once thought, maybe I should only date Black men who date Black women because maybe I’d never feel let down, well, in that area anyway. I wouldn’t have to psychoanalyze their actions toward me or think thrice about something they’ve said or feel misunderstood or like too much effort to understand and maybe, just maybe, I could end up being loved—just for who I am.”
When I look at Sam, his mouth is slightly open.
“Shit,” I say. “Sorry, that really brought the mood down. I’m experimenting with honesty. Erm, so what’s tomorrow’s meeting about?”
He smiles sadly. “I’m really sorry someone made you feel that way, Maddie.”
“Life lesson, I suppose.”
“Yeah, dating gives you a lot of those.”
We both look at each other. “Bad experience yourself?”
“You could say that.” I think he means to stop there but then continues. “An ex of mine could talk for days about other social issues, but when it came to racial discrimination, she just didn’t care enough; she’d almost shut down. Soon she was providing excuses and playing devil’s advocate too often.” He looks at me. “I’ll never get that—playing devil’s advocate, like we’re talking pineapple on pizza. You know, she once said that to my mum? She told my deeply religious Zimbabwean-born mother that she was ‘only playing devil’s advocate.’”
I think of how my mum would react to that phrase. The mother who wouldn’t let me watch Harry Potter because she didn’t want me to invite witchcraft into the house. She’d probably ask how much the devil was paying me to advocate for him. “What did your mum say?” I ask.
“Mum asked if she was an agent of darkness.”
I fight a laugh. “Sorry things didn’t work out,” I tell him.
“It’s all right,” he says. “It was a year ago, now. We were arguing a lot and I would just think, if you don’t get it now, after everything, will you ever?” He shakes his head. “Sometimes relationships are tricky and things happen.”
“Very well said.”
He laughs and stubs out his cigarette. “How’s life at OTP?”
I breathe out. “I’m going to confront my boss tomorrow.”
He smiles. “Did you just decide that now?”
“I did.”
“Good for you. What atrocities have they been up to?”
I tell Sam everything, from Flavor Pairings, to the incident with the milk jug, ending with Love Stories from the Middle East.
“You should definitely say something.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“I know, but I mean it,” he says seriously. “I think when working in white spaces we can feel programmed to not rock the boat; like, we got a foot in the door and we should try to keep that door closed behind us. Which means you begin assigning any and all problematic issues to just being a part of the job. If someone’s not treating you right, you should say so. The milk jug might be difficult to explain—understanding why that shouldn’t have happened requires nuance—but the use of your creative ideas whilst excluding you is an issue that needs to be dealt with. Again, easier said than done, but so worth it in the long run.”
I wonder how things would have gone at CGT if I had given Katherine a piece of my mind. Instead I kept quiet, took her abuse, and got fired anyway.
“You don’t deserve to have other people’s comments and actions eat away at you five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. My dad always says: ‘Regardless of how you behave, a lot of things are going to be out of your control because this world was made to test you. Protect your peace in whatever and every way that you can.”’
“Hey, Sam!” Kenny leans over the gate. “Our car’s here—ready to go?”
Sam gets to his feet, and I’m reminded of how tall he is. “Coming in?”
“No, I might stay here a while longer,” I say. “Thanks for talking to me.”
“It was a good talk.” He stops at the gate and calls, “Hey, Maddie?”
“Yes?”
“Good luck tomorrow,” he says, smiling yet again. “I’m rooting for you.”
Chapter Forty
When I walk into the office, rough samples of Love Stories sit on my desk with a note: Make sure Kris approves these today. I pull the note aside to read the proposed cover: