"Possibly," Mateo says, laughing as he lowers his shirt. He shakes his head and adds, "And for the record, you're not fat." His grin softens the jab.
The cashier leans out the window, and Mateo hands over his credit card without missing a beat. Once he's got the food bagged and his card tucked back into his wallet, he pulls out of the parking lot a little too quickly, the smell of hot fries filling the car.
"Philip," he says suddenly, his tone shifting into something that sounds absurdly serious.
"Yes, Mateo?" I mimic his tone, pretending like we're about to discuss world peace.
Mateo glances over at me with mock horror. "Are you seriously dipping your fries into that milkshake right now?" His voice breaks into laughter.
I keep my face perfectly straight as I dunk another fry into the vanilla swirl. "Yes. Very much so," I reply solemnly, as if announcing a great truth.
"You're weird," he says, still chuckling, shaking his head.
