Those are fun.
And his supporters are eating it up. As soon as he’s finished speaking, there’s an endless influx of tweets about Quinton’s disrespect to our country and how he needs to learn his place. Apparently, if you have a job in sports, it doesn’t matter if you’re an American citizen or not, you are not allowed to have an opinion. #ShutUpAndPlay has been trending all week long. And while I still don’t know where exactly I belong in this movement, I get pissed every time I see the way they twist his motives into something else completely.
On the bright side, we have made a ton of progress on his foundation and the launch party is shaping up to be pretty phenomenal if I may say so myself.
“I’m thinking balloons. Lots and lots of balloons.” I look at Quinton over the top of my computer, the screen filled with balloon displays by a local company.
“Balloons?” Quinton quirks his left eyebrow up, something I’ve noticed he always does when he thinks I’m being absurd. “Like a kid’s birthday party?”
“I mean, kind of, yeah. Balloons are at celebrations because they make people happy. They’re joyous. Which is a good feeling for people to have when you want their money.” I turn my computer toward him when his face still doesn’t change. “See? We can have a big backdrop by the entrance where people can take pictures. Some of the balloons will have your logo on them, so it will be just like a step and repeat, except better. Then, inside”—I walk around the table to stand next to him and point to the arrangement I want—“they can snake up the wall and cover the ceiling. It will be so much more fun than flowers. This isn’t a wedding and we don’t want it to read that way.”
“These are pretty dope. I didn’t know they did shit like that with balloons.”
“Balloons are super dope and shit.” I repeat his words back to him, but the words that sounded so natural coming out of his mouth sound so ridiculous coming from me that we both start laughing.
Besides the very first time we met, this is the only other time that I’ve heard him laugh. I mean, the man barely smiles. I guess he has transformed from quarterback extraordinaire to one of the most controversial figures in sports in the matter of three games, so I can see where the stress would come from. But I have a feeling there may be more to it than that. And even though we’re cordial with one another, I don’t feel comfortable asking. Even so, an annoying sense of happiness floats through me for being the person who finally wiped that serious expression from his face.
Once his laughter has faded away, he looks me straight in the eyes and if I hadn’t witnessed it, I’d think I’d imagined him laughing. Not one trace of humor lingers in the hard edges of his face. “Don’t ever say that again.”
My spine straightens. “What?”
Then it happens.
He winks at me.
WINKS!
“Wait? Are you teasing me?” I’ve been shocked by quite a few things during our time together, like how much he seems to genuinely care about the causes he’s choosing to support, how smart he is when the mask he always seems to be wearing accidentally slips, the Diet Coke I found in his fridge that he let me drink. I mean, I would never give up the last Diet Coke. But this, a hidden sense of humor, might be the biggest shock of all.
“You aren’t the only funny one here.”
Well, that’s a stretch. I’m definitely funnier than he is.
I don’t say that, though.
“You’re not funnier than me,” he says.
But apparently my face said it loud and clear. I really need to learn to check my facial expressions.
“Whatever. I guess humor is subjective.” I grab my computer and move back to my seat. I open up the spreadsheet I’ve created for the party and add a column for balloons before confirming. “So yes on the balloons?”
“Yup.” He lifts his chin. “Pop yourself out.”
I groan and rest my head on my computer. “Puns. Dear God. He really thinks he’s punny.”
His throaty chuckle reverberates off the still-empty walls and rugless cement floor.
I sit back up in my chair, closing the party tabs and tucking the piece of hair that has fallen in front of my face behind my ear. I look up to ask Quinton a question. My head jerks back when instead of seeing the top of his head like I expected, we are making direct eye contact. And he’s got some weird expression on his face that I haven’t seen before.
“What? Do I have something on my face?” I narrow my eyes at him before wiping at my cheek. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I wasn’t looking at you.” He drops his eyes and stares at the paper that has no words on it, fidgeting with the pen between his fingers. “I was looking at the door, trying to think of something when you tried to see into my soul.”
You know that feeling when you wave to the stranger in the grocery store because you think they’re waving at you, but they are really waving to someone standing behind you? That’s how I feel.
“Oh, sorry for interrupting your thinking.” I hope the heat I feel in my cheeks is hidden beneath my brown skin and Fenty blush I slathered on this morning. “But do you have the finalized list for your board members?”
I had him reach out to everyone he had in mind for the board after our first meeting at his house. Some people were immediate—and enthusiastic—yeses. Others had too many commitments already to get involved and the few maybes were supposed to get back to him over the weekend. They didn’t say anything outright, but I think a couple of them were nervous to attach their name to his until they saw which way all of this media attention started to swing. But because I’m good at my job, I drafted an email for him to send over. In it, we showed them the world Quinton was intent on creating. A world where, even if there were some people who were angry—you can’t please everyone—history would show that he was on the right side. This was going to have a lasting impact and they had the opportunity to create a legacy of change.
“Yeah.” He flips through the spiral notebook. The only time I’ve seen him use a computer is when I push mine in front of him. “They said yes.”
“Told you my persuasive emails were a surefire thing.” I resist the urge to shimmy in my seat, the embarrassments of today’s meeting still too fresh in my mind to add another one.
“You did.” He slides the notebook across the table so I can enter in all of the details to my foundation spreadsheet. What? I like a spreadsheet! “Between you and the balloons, we’re sure to raise a ton of money.”
“You’ve never said a more accurate statement in your entire—” I stop talking. Rereading the list of board members, there’s one name that is glaringly missing. “Is this everyone?”