“That’s it?”
“Isn’t that enough? I mean, from the outside I’d say you aren’t one bit compatible. If you guys were an analogy, I’d say you are to preppy as she is to . . . earthy. You are to bacon cheeseburger as she is to . . .”
“Tofu steaks?”
“Lentil loaf.”
“Tempeh hot dogs.”
Haley screws up her face. “Ugh, that stuff is nasty. Tempeh. What exactly is textured protein product? Brrr!” She shudders.
“Isn’t it made from soybeans?”
“That’s tofu.”
“I think they’re both made from soybeans, but I’m not sure.”
She wags one finger at him. “You should be proud of that ignorance. You should wear your lack of soy knowledge as a badge of honor.”
“Okay, so now you’re sounding like a militant carnivore.”
“Nah. I just like to eat real food that tastes good.”
Richard raises his mug, laughing. “Here’s to that.” They clink. “You sound like my sister, Ellen.”
Haley sips her coffee. “You have a sister who’s into food?”
“She’s not some foodie, but she is . . . enthusiastic about food,” he explains. “Can’t get enough of it, actually. She’s a swimmer.”
Haley smiles, lips closed. “I don’t have siblings.”
“I’m sorry.”
One corner of her mouth turns up. “Most people who hear that tell me I’m lucky.”
“That’s because their siblings probably suck,” he explains. “My little sister is definitely the coolest member of our family.”
Haley tilts her head. “How so?”
Richard pauses. It suddenly feels strange to be telling this girl he doesn’t know about Ellen. He’s not sure he even mentioned to Carrie that he had a sister. Did it ever come up?
“Well, she puts up with me,” he finally says. “And I’m a handful.”
Haley laughs. Then they’re both quiet for a minute.
“For someone who doesn’t know Carrie, you seem to . . . know Carrie,” Richard tries again.
Haley wraps her hands tightly around her mug before answering. “She just gives a strong first impression. I mean, what do I know? Maybe she’s a closet math genius and you’re an Earth First! commando. You must have something in common.”
Richard smiles. He decides not to mention the one interest he and Carrie shared.
“So are you?” she asks.
“What?”
“An Earth First! commando.”
“I can’t even recycle,” he confesses. “You know how the college puts those two bins in our rooms? One for trash, one for recycling?”
“I know, right?” she interjects. “So confusing! Like . . . Fritos bags? Not really plastic, not really paper. What do you do with them?”
“I end up putting most of it in the trash,” he says.
“I put most of it in the recycling,” she says. “I guess that makes us trash--neutral. We cancel each other out.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I mean . . . Fritos? There’s some serious carbon footprint there.”
“Not okay?”
“Okay by me. I’m a big fan of dorm vending machines. But in the enviro--kid Olympics, those Fritos slow you way down.”
Haley laughs. She laughs with her mouth open and her head back. Like someone who laughs easily and often. This conversation is not going at all as he’d intended, but he doesn’t mind.
“Anyway,” he continues, “I think Carrie would agree with you. That we weren’t a fit.”
“But you don’t agree?”
“No, you’re right. We weren’t compatible. I’m just not the sort of person who gives up easily. Especially on relationships.”
She drains her coffee. Rolls her paper napkin into a ball and stuffs it into the empty cup. “Sounds like you’re not over it.”
“Oh, it’s over. Totally,” he says. “It’s just . . . recent.”
Haley glances over his shoulder, breaking eye contact. Is it his imagination or has her expression clouded again?
She stands, looking around for the trash can. “That’s too bad.”
He’s not quite sure what she means by that.
“I should go,” she continues. “I have an appointment at the health clinic. One of those really useful half hours where they tell me I have a headache and eventually it will go away.”
He rises. He’s barely touched his coffee. “Let me guess: you think health services is useless?”
“It is what it is. But hey, thanks again. For the help.”
“Any time,” he says. “See you around.”
Haley slouches into her backpack and heads for the exit. Before she walks out, she turns, sees that he’s still watching, and waves. This little waist--level wave, sort of a half wave. It’s totally goofy. And cute. Seriously cute.
She disappears through the door. Only then does it occur to him that he never got around to asking her what she and Carrie were talking about the other day.
. . .
It’s almost enough. Almost.
“Want to just stay in tonight? And dance?”
“Dance party!” someone yells. Speakers blare. A window is opened. It’s already hot inside.
They bear so little resemblance to their weekday selves. Their book--toting, note--taking selves. Gray--hoodie, no--makeup, coffee--chugging selves. Restrained, focused, deliberate selves.
Something within them wants to break apart.