“Christ, there they go again.” St. Clair scratches his head and looks away.

“Have they always been this bad?” I ask, lowering my voice.

“No. Last year they were worse.”

“Yikes. Been together long, then?”

“Er, last winter?”

“That’s quite a while.”

He shrugs and I pause, debating whether I want to know the answer to my next question. Probably not, but I ask anyway. “How long have you and Ellie been dating?”

St. Clair thinks for a moment. “About a year now, I suppose.” He takes a sip of coffee—everyone here seems to drink it—then slams down the cup with a loud CLUNK that startles Rashmi and Josh. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “Did that bother you?”

He turns to me and opens his brown eyes wide in exasperation. I suck in my breath. Even when he’s annoyed, he’s beautiful. Comparing him to Toph isn’t even possible. St. Clair is a different kind of attractive, a different species altogether.

“Change of subject.” He points a finger at me. “I thought southern belles were supposed to have southern accents.”

I shake my head. “Only when I talk to my mom.Then it slips out because she has one. Most people in Atlanta don’t have an accent. It’s pretty urban. A lot of people speak gangsta, though,” I add jokingly.

“Fo’ shiz,” he replies in his polite English accent.

I spurt orangey-red soup across the table. St. Clair gives a surprised ha-HA kind of laugh, and I’m laughing, too, the painful kind like abdominal crunches. He hands me a napkin to wipe my chin. “Fo’. Shiz.” He repeats it solemnly.

Cough cough. “Please don’t ever stop saying that. It’s too—” I gasp. “Much.”

“You oughtn’t to have said that. Now I shall have to save it for special occasions.”

“My birthday is in February.” Cough choke wheeze. “Please don’t forget.”

“And mine was yesterday,” he says.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Yes. It was.” He mops the remainder of my spewed lunch from the tabletop. I try to take the napkins to clean it myself, but he waves my hand away.