“I said we’ll be fine.” I’m barely holding on to my patience now.
“You strapped, dawg?” Amir asks.
I lift my pant leg and show him the gun at my ankle.
“Is that really necessary?” The concern trebles in Bristol’s eyes once she sees the gun. “You know how I feel about guns.”
“And you know how I feel about not being able to protect you— not gonna happen. I have the license for it.” I drop the pant leg and turn to Amir. “Like I said, we’ll be fine walking.”
“It’s cold out there.” Bristol rubs her arms like she’s still standing on the sidewalk. “It’s December.”
“I’m the Cali dude,” I tease, “and I’m willing to walk in the cold, but you grew up here and are wimping out?”
“She’s right, though,” Amir says, poised to take the first bite of his sandwich. “It is cold.”
I point in the direction from which Bristol just came.
“Why don’t you take your heart attack on white bread and go back to your place?”
Bristol gives the sandwich a cautious glance. “What is that?”
“You never had bologna, Bris?” I ask.
“No.” She offers an investigative sniff. This I have to see.
“You probably wouldn’t like it,” I say casually. “It’s what we grew up on. We had to eat it in the hood—you know, us being poor and all, struggling to make ends meet. Right, Amir?”
He catches on immediately and jumps in.
“Oh, yeah,” he agrees. “Some nights this was all our moms could afford, but I understand, Bristol, if you don’t want to try—”
“Give it to me. I’ll try it,” she interrupts, stepping over to Amir and the sandwich in question. “I bet it’s . . . well . . . I’m sure it’s . . .”
Her voice dies when she comes face-to-face with the processed meat. Looking brave, she bites into it. She goes a little green for a second, like she might be sick, then she chews it quickly, determined not to ever
let us know. Meanwhile, Amir has a coughing fit to disguise his laugh. I’ve had lots of practice keeping a straight face when messing with Bristol.
“You like it?” I ask.
“Mmmhmmmmm.” She swallows her gag reflex. “I can see why . . . see why you guys loved it. It’s . . . so . . . so . . .”
“Good?” I supply.
“Yeah, it’s good.” She hands it to Amir like it’s burning her fingers. “I don’t want to take it all from you, Amir.”
“Oh, no, Bristol.” He pushes it back toward her. “You can have—”
“No, really.” She shoves it back to him, looking like she needs a barf bag. “Please take it.”
“I’m gonna head out then.” Amir bites the sandwich, closing his eyes in ghetto rapture. “Hmmmmm. Thanks for leaving me some, Bris.”
“Of course.” She laughs nervously, like she’s afraid she’ll have to down some more. “You keep it. You eat it . . . all of it.”
As soon as we hear the door close behind him, Bristol rounds on me.
“Oh, my God. Why did you let me eat that shit?”
My laugh bounces off the walls.