Georgia Boys

06. in which quincy dances

Quincy wakes up before everyone else, and I wake up second. Maxine wakes up third, due to what she insists is a "necessary" grocery run to grab some coffee, because the Dentons have allegedly run out. 

Quincy slips up into the kitchen. He's pulled his locs back with an elastic and is rummaging through his parents' cupboards. Apparently his father is running the bakery and his mother is driving west to drop a wedding cake delivery. 

Per tradition, Quincy and I are responsible from breakfast. Quincy eventually wanders over to his fridge and grabs a massive vat of half-done batter. "We still need to add some more ingredients but how do you feel about pancakes?"

"I don't hate it," I reply as Quincy lugs the vat to his granite counter. 

"Good," Quincy says, "because we need to get rid of all this batter and I would've done it anyway."

"Why bother asking then?" I trail after him to where he stands, leaning against the counter, rolling his sleeves up as his eyes dart around his kitchen for ingredients. 

"I'm polite!" Quincy exclaims, like it is in fact the most obvious thing in the world. 

"Not that polite," I mutter.

"For someone slumming it up with the Robbie Cabot, you're quite bitter, you know that?" Quincy's cutting a golden piece of butter, allowing it to fall into the batter. 

"Smooth segue," I reply. 

His lips tip upward as he orders me to grab some milk and pours what's remaining in the liter once I've brought it to him. "Can't blame me for being curious. They say he's swoon-worthy," he raises the back of his hand to his forehead and physically swoons. It's an action dripping in amusement and I roll my eyes. 

Quincy uses the back of a wooden spoon to hit the center of my chest. "And then you say— you claim— that it's not what it looks like." He now taps the base of the wooden spoon against his chin. "But I know a liar when I see one, especially if it's you, Silas Barnes. I study you."

He shifts out of the way and allows me to crack eggs over the batter, then returns to his position and mixes it to the consistency he likes. In my opinion, he makes pancakes too soft. Everything Quincy bakes is irritatingly soft and sweet and fluffy. And trust— I know how to make a good pastry, and I know that these are desirable qualities. But sometimes, it is preferable to have less softness and more firmness. Something that sticks around and won't just fly away. 

"Well, what do you wanna know?" My eyes cut to him. "Since you know me so well, you probably already have an idea."

Quincy hums. His eyes glint. "Yes, but I want to hear you say it."

"We kissed maybe six months ago." My eyes follow Quincy as he pours some batter into a silver pan on the stove. "Is that what you want to hear?"

"Precisely," Quincy's grin is wide. "This is too perfect; the boy who slandered my choice of a country club boy made out with the king of country club boys."

"God," I run my hand down my face. "Robbie's not like all those guys, in my defense."

"True, he acts nicer than the others when he's condescending you," Quincy replies, flipping the pancake.

"That's not... I mean, you dated Emerson Abernathy. If we're to be real, Robbie's not half as bad."

Quincy gives me a look. "Emerson is a massive piece of shit. I am unsure if that's a flex." And he says it calmly, like he does understand douchebaggery and boys that make him feel insecure, and doesn't in fact live in a world of peace and rainbows.