Love the One You're With Read Free Page A

you the most.”
    That was easy. I turned to Pooquie. “I wish you were at a place where you could tell your family about yourself—and us.” He and I had talked about this a lot. The nod he gave me affirmed he’s slowly starting to realize that, after integrating me into his life the way he has, there’s no way that his mother or his son’s mother doesn’t suspect we could be more than just friends.
    I handed the hat to Gene, who had just returned with a cup of coffee—but he wouldn’t take it. He was throwing me shade.
    And, yes, I was gagging. “What?”
    â€œNow, you know that ain’t what you told me a few weeks ago.”
    I wasn’t looking in his direction, but I could feel Pooquie tense up.
    â€œUh-oh, a challenge!” exclaimed B.D.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” I asked.
    â€œYou told me that the thing that bothers you the most about Pooquie is his being a drama queen.”
    I could see Pooquie out of the corner of my right eye freeze: he clutched the armrests of the easy chair and his head was titled down on a ninety-degree angle, avoiding everyone’s gaze.
    â€œI didn’t say that,” I laughed, trying to inject some humor into the haze of doubt filling the room.
    Gene sucked his teeth. “Oh, no? Then what did you say?”
    I struggled. “Well … if I remember correctly, I said that … that Pooquie sometimes has the bad habit of … of being a little too dramatic about some things, that he sometimes acts like a drama queen.”
    â€œThat’s not what I remember,” declared Gene, crossing his arms and his legs. “Now, you did say that he has the bad habit of being a little too dramatic, that he sometimes overreacts to things—throwing a tantrum, storming off, running away. But you also said it bothers you a lot, and the last words out of your mouth were: ‘I wish he wasn’t such a drama queen.’”
    I was playing it over in my mind and, yes, that was what I said. But I certainly didn’t want to own up to it now. “Gene, you misunderstood me.”
    â€œI didn’t misunderstand a thang. I know what I heard.”
    â€œWell, even if I did say that—”
    â€œ Which you did,” he insisted.
    â€œâ€”I certainly didn’t mean that he is a drama queen, as you originally stated.”
    â€œAh, a stickler for details. The journalist in you is coming out. How con ven ient.”
    I was more than testy now. “Well, if you’re going to quote me, quote me verbatim. As we see, one or two words can make the difference.”
    He huffed. “He is a drama queen, he acts like a drama queen … a distinction without a difference if you ask me. No matter how you try to break it down or rework it, it basically means the same thing.”
    Pooquie agreed. He, along with Gene, voted that I wasn’t telling the truth. (B.D. sided with Babyface, who believed that the context was important, and since it was unclear based on our different accounts, they couldn’t vote either way.) Pooquie simmered, but he did a jood job of keeping his top. But after they left (which wasn’t long after the argument; it threw a wrench into and ended the game, and put a damper on the rest of the day), he blew up. He was more hurt and embarrassed than angry, and I could understand why: I would’ve felt the same way if I discovered in front of others (even if they were extended family like B.D., Babyface, and Gene) that my mate viewed me in such a way. But, in classic Pooquie fashion, he carried on about it (yeah, like a drama queen), accusing me of “insulting” his manhood and wondering out loud how he could fall in love with someone who thought of him that way. And, as is often the case when he is put out or off by me, he chose to sleep on the couch for the next six days (absolutely the longest he can go without being touched by or lying next to