Page 46 of Wants and Needs
“Yes, and the birthday song,” I add and nod sagely.
“Yes. Besides that I don’t like people who are late.” He’s looking away, but thoughtfully, not avoiding me really.
“Me either,” I confess.
“I don’t like motorcycles or people who ride them.”
“Why?”
“I think they’re insane,” he says shortly, and when he looks back at me, the corners of his eyes aren’t pinched. “Why would they put their bodies directly in the way of moving cars?”
I burst out laughing. “I can understand that.”
“Eating ice cream during the winter,” he continues, clearly on a roll now. “People who eat dessert before the main course. Wearing a lot of rings. I will never trust anyone who doesn’t like music, people who wear socks with sandals, boats,” he finishes, with his eyes wide open and his mouth twisted in a disgusted snarl.
“You have a pet peeve about... boats,” I summarize, trying to see if he’s serious.
“Yes,” he cries. “I understand they were necessary not that many years ago, but nowadays if you’re not going scuba diving or trying to clean up the ocean, then no one should have boats.”
I can only stare for a full thirty seconds, and his perpetual frown appears again, but then I burst out laughing.
“Dear Lord, Liam. I’d never thought about that, but it makes some actual sense.”
“It makes all the sense,” he corrects me, just stiffly enough that I know he’s not actually offended. “Anyway, what are your pet peeves?”
“Being barefoot. Anywhere but the beach, the bed, the bath, and the shower is unacceptable.”
“Okay,” he says quietly, looking like he’s memorizing every word. “What else?”
“Nose picking, nail biting, people who demand I share my food.” He nods along. “I think that’s it.”
“All right, what else is on that list?”
“Favorite things,” I tell him. “That’s easy for me. If I have a day off, then I’ll probably go to the park for a walk and end up at the Met where I could spend a few hours going from painting to painting. My favorite food is Chicken Tikka Masala, my favorite dessert is chocolate cake, my favorite snacks are those Mexican chips, Takis.”
“The super spicy ones?” he asks, lip curling.
“Exactly those.”
“I can’t handle a lot of spice,” he confesses.
“That’s fine, it happens. I just had an Indian father and Pakistani mother, so it’s what I was used to before I went to boarding school.”
“That’s so much culture in one family.” He says it wistfully, and I have to take a deep breath to control myself.
“Well, your mother is from the south and your father from Liverpool, so that’s also a lot of culture, right?”
“I guess. Though Mom’s parents were dicks—maybe they still are, we don’t know—so I never knew them. Dad’s parents are great, though. We visit them twice a year at least.”
“That’s nice,” I tell him, my tone sounding clipped because I don’t want to lose control of my emotions.
“What about your grandparents?” he surprises me by asking.
“Oh, well, Dad’s parents are still in India and I met them a few times growing up, but they were really against my father marrying my motherandliving in England after college, so they’re not a part of our lives anymore. My mum’s parents lived in London until they passed away when I was still in school.”
“Okay,” he says simply, and I find it refreshing, freeing, that he doesn’t offer condolences or false sentiments. “Mom’s parents wanted her to give me up for adoption and keep it a secret forever,” he says softly. “That’s why I never met them.”
“That’s sad,” I say, and mentally roll my eyes at myself, so sophisticated and smart.
