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CHAPTER 12

Dinner at Tasha's usurps my giddy mood in a way I did not think possible. Reece and I eat our lamb, potatoes and vegetables in silence as Tasha, the chef of this meal, neglects her food to harp on about what she perceived to be signs of fragmentation in our relationship.

I allow her to rant as I scoop up the last titbits of lamb, grateful that I had some food in my belly. Either the weed was exceptionally strong or I had too much because the munchies I was experiencing right now were out of this world. So much so I end up taking another chunk of lamb from the fridge and some of Tasha's potatoes which she has pushed to the side of her plate: her latest protein diet meant her carb intake was restricted so she didn't mind.

"So tell us," she is drawing to the end of another rant about me and is ready to pose her next question. "What's with you and this guy?"

"George?"

"Who else?"

I shrug and chew into my freshly microwaved lamb, swallow and pat my lips. "Nothing."

"You were literally joined at the hip when we saw you, something is clearly going on."

"It's actually nothing," I insist.

"So just sex?"

I drink my wine to help soften the ball of food in my throat before forcing it down with more food. Maybe it's the alcohol mixed with the high but I don't feel self-conscious in speaking openly in front of Reece today.

"So what if it is?"

"Well I was hoping you'd date someone and not just fool around," she complains.

"You didn't seem to care when you were badgering me before about finding someone to fuck not long ago." I remind her. "I think our little Karma got some suga'," I mimic her uppity accent.

"That's before I knew you were messing with him."

"His name is George," I say defensively. "And what's wrong with him?"

"What's right with him Karma?"

I don't know if it's the alcohol talking or how she genuinely feels: either way I am not surprised by Tasha's tone. It was moments like these that remind me of how different our upbringings were.

"He's not bad."

"He's a dick, right Reece?"

I look at Reece for confirmation but his focus remains on his empty plate and then his phone. "He is a bit of a character," he relents after a few moments.

"How would you know?" I badger.

"Everybody knows," Tasha butts in. "He's a douche."

It was crazy to think I thought the same of him not too long ago, as much as I didn't want to admit it. I had judged George before getting to know him. Sitting on that coach last Friday, I too thought he was a douche; going out on that date on Saturday, douche; driving up to his house today, douche. That didn't stop me from liking him though. If anything it made my feelings stronger – as if I needed to defend him. The more we spoke, the more I realised we were alike in so many ways. The conversation we had in the car ride up here showed me that. Dissing him felt personal: like the elements of myself which I had suppressed were being attacked.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I press.

"Look at his friends!" Tasha announces.

"T –" Reece speaks up.

"No Reece, I won't have it," Tasha ignores him.

She spits out the last word like it is dirt and it sinks in where her vitriol was truly coming from. George wasn't the problem per se... his character was. He was a caricature: the urban white kid with black friends and proud: no way in hell was that good enough for her privately educated black friend. She needed me to date someone better, someone proper, and someone who society would respect: George simply didn't fit the bill.