What most people didn’t know about Sammy was that she was obsessed with chocolate. She even found Gael’s Snickers habit endearing, as much as she made fun of him for it. It was the kind of thing she would do. Scratch that, it was the kind of thing she did do. Her chocolate-chip waffle habit actually began on September 4, to be exact, the day John dumped her, during the second week of school. (Fun fact: The first two weeks of college are breakup city, no matter where in the world you are.)
However, because her mom used to tell her that the stuff would make her fat, she sadly associated chocolate with shame and therefore hid her love well. But on Saturday mornings, just a few minutes after the dining hall opened, while her hallmates were still sleeping off their hangovers, she religiously made herself a big Belgian waffle loaded with chocolate chips, enjoying her guilty pleasure all on her own.
Cara was also a waffle-lover. But she normally got to the dining hall a good bit later. Of course, normally, her alarm didn’t mysteriously go off at eight forty-five on a Saturday. And so when she would usually be sleeping, she was lying in her bed, cursing herself for somehow not turning off her weekday alarm, and trying to go back to sleep.
By 9:15 Cara was begrudgingly throwing on her Birks and heading to the dining hall in attempt to get on with her day, since she clearly wasn’t going to nod off again.
The two strangers got to the waffle station at exactly the same time. (I swear I’m like an award-winning orchestra conductor sometimes.)
Cara poured a ladleful of regular batter onto her machine, while Sammy poured her own ladle and grabbed the container of chocolate chips.
Wait for it . . .
Wait for it . . .
“Shit!” Sammy stared at the mountain of chocolate now piled up on the batter. The cap of the container had come off completely and rolled along the floor right into Cara’s feet.
“Oh my god, let me help you!” Cara sprung to action, as I knew she would, grabbing a broom and dustpan that I’d placed nearby and cleaning up the chips on the floor.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” Sammy stammered. “I’m sorry—I don’t know how that happened.”
Cara swept the chips into the dustpan and surveyed Sammy’s half-cooked waffle, which was now completely coated in messy, gooey chocolate. “I mean, I love chocolate as much as the next girl, but even that’s a little much for me.”
Sammy laughed, then fiddled with the container in her hand. “I think some dick unscrewed the top so they’d all fall out.” She rolled her eyes. “College boys.” (Or metaphysical entities. Either one.)
“Wow, what an asshole,” Cara said. “People are such idiots.”
The girls carefully threw their ruined waffles into the trash, then Cara poured new waffles for both of them and topped Sammy’s with an appropriate amount of chips. She closed the lids, and the smell of melting chocolate filled the air. “I’m Cara, by the way,” she said.
“Sammy.” She reached out her hand. “And thank you so much for your help.”
“No problem. Are you here with anyone?” Cara asked. “I feel like after surviving a chocolate debacle the least we could do is eat our waffles together. I woke up super early today, so none of my friends are here.”
Sammy smiled. “You’re on.”
They grabbed seats at a two-person table and proceeded to chat about everything from waffles to the tininess of their dorm rooms to the idiocy of the teacher’s assistant in Sammy’s French philosophy class. The two bonded brilliantly, as I knew they would.
As Sammy cut apart the last bit of her waffle, she got an idea. (Yes, there may have been some nudging from yours truly.)
“This is kind of random,” she said. “But I actually have a Groupon for two tickets to the zoo in Asheboro tomorrow, and my roommate bailed. Any chance you want to go?”
Cara laughed out loud. “That is random.”
Sammy topped off her last bite with extra syrup. “I know, but animals are fun, right?”
Cara smiled. “Totally. You’re on.”
And just like that my plan was back on track.
meanwhile, on the other side of town
“How does your apartment have, like, no service?” Gael asked as he stormed out of the sad bedroom in his dad’s apartment and slammed the door behind him.
In the tiny apartment kitchen, Gael’s dad stirred eggs and fried bacon while Piper cut the tops off strawberries. They were wearing matching aprons that Gael’s mom had gotten the whole family a couple of Christmases ago. Piper’s said “Good Egg” and his dad’s said “Bad Egg.”
“It works fine in the living room,” his dad said, as he turned over a piece of bacon with tongs.
“I would like at least a little privacy,” Gael said bitterly.
“It works fine in my room, too,” his dad offered.
The thought of making his phone call where his dad ostensibly spent time talking to that girl made Gael sick to his stomach. “I want to talk in my own room,” he said angrily.
Piper stopped cutting fruit long enough to cross her arms and purse her lips. “Maybe you shouldn’t be, like, addicted to your phone? Mom says you spend way too much time with your gadgets.”
“Well, Mom’s not here, is she?” Gael snapped.