This Raging Light by Estelle Laure

of hungry for delicious burritos of every flavor.” He rubs his perfect belly and grins. “So, was your night good?”
    â€œUh-uh.” I shake my head. “You,” I say.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTalk about you. You always ask about me and don’t say a thing about yourself. It’s kind of totally unfair.”
    His cheeks brighten, redden again. It’s cute.
    He shrugs.
    â€œNot good enough,” I say. “I think you’re an avoider and a deflector. So tell about you.”
    â€œNot like you answer my questions either.”
    â€œSee? Avoider,” I say.
    â€œYou know everything about me,” he says.
    â€œDefinitely not everything.”
    I want to make him blush all day.
    â€œFavorite food,” I say. “Start with that.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œFavorite food,” I repeat.
    He bites at his own lip. The top one. “I like salad.”
    â€œSalad?”
    â€œYes,” he says, like he’s admitting he wears girls’ underwear on occasion. “I like salad. Fresh field greens, okay?” He’s grinning that grin I love.
    â€œBut that’s so unmeaty.”
    â€œI know,” he says, “I think that’s the point. My mom is always making a ton of food, right? Mega meat and potatoes. Pasta and roast and chickens and—I don’t know. It’s a lot of bulk and carnage.”
    I lean forward, pull my toes out from under me. “Digby Jones, are you a secret vegetarian?”
    He turns a little to the side so we’re facing each other more, kicks off his shoes, puts his feet up onto the couch. They are mere millimeters from mine. “I like that you can do so much with things that come out of the earth. But you know I like my steak, too. As long as it’s in Philly.”
    â€œWell, anyway, it makes a weird kind of sense.”
    â€œIn what way?”
    â€œI don’t know. You seem . . .” I choose my words carefully. “You seem too sensitive for meat.”
    His hand jumps toward me for a second, then backs down.
    â€œDo you want to know my favorite food?” I ask.
    â€œNope. I know it.”
    â€œYou do?”
    â€œYep. Well, I mean, I know what it was.”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œBell peppers.”
    My body stutters. When we were younger, while everyone chomped on chips and drank Kool-Aid, I always went for bell peppers. I don’t know why. Something about the crisp, the juice, the simplicity. I haven’t had one in so long, though. I haven’t just sat down with a plateful of pepper slices and let the clean taste of them freshen me up.
    â€œPaying attention, Digby Jones,” I say.
    He breaks eye contact.
    â€œWhat?” I say.
    â€œNothing.” He takes off his hat, holds it between his hands on his lap. “I like it when you say my name.” The tiniest wrinkles tickle at the sides of his eyes. “So are peppers still your favorite food?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I say. “I don’t even know
that
.”
    He totally rolls his eyes.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œEverything is so dramatic with you lately.
My mom left me with my little sister. Some guardian angel brings me stuff. I work in a restaurant and have to actually talk to people.
” He gives my feet a little smack.
“Wah, I have even lost track of my favorite food.”
    Coming from anyone else, it would be mean-spirited. From him, it is somehow not.
    â€œAre you finished?” I say.
    Shakes his head, eyes all on me again. Mischief.
“Wah,”
he says,
“I am so beautiful. Wah.”
He slows down.
“I am smart, I am competent, I am making the impossible possible.”
Barely audible.
“I am amazing.”
    â€œAmazing,” I repeat, but I am saying it about him.
    â€œYes, amazing. You did a crazy thing that night, with your dad.”
    I start to protest.
    â€œI know you don’t like to talk about it, but you jumped