Full Package(18)

My growling stomach is the answer. “Waffles on you is my dream meal.”

She nudges me and shoots me a smile as we walk along the sidewalk. “King of double entendres.”

“And I wear the title with pride,” I say, trying my best to think about waffles, not eating them off Josie. Though I bet that’s the absolute best way to eat waffles.

Under the bright fluorescent lights at Wendy’s Diner around the corner, curiosity gets the better of this cat. After the waitress brings water and coffee and takes our order, I stroke my chin, as if I’ve got a beard. “Beards. Glasses. Skinny jeans.”

She frowns in confusion. “Is that your grocery list?”

“No. But is it yours? Would I have received an aardvark text warning me to stay away tonight? Are you into hipsters?” I nod in the general uptown direction of the hospital. I’ve never thought about who she might be into before. It hasn’t been a big part of our lexicon. The fact is, I’m only vaguely aware of a few dates and boyfriends she’s had in the past. I am well aware, though, that of all the things I might be, a hipster is absolutely not one of them.

I’m not sure why my muscles tense as I wait for her answer. Or why I hope she doesn’t have a big thing for hipsters.

She laughs and takes a drink of her water. She shrugs happily. “I don’t really have a type.”

My shoulders relax. “You just like all dudes?”

She rolls her eyes. “No. Obviously I don’t like everyone. But I don’t have a physical type per se. Sure, handsome is nice, but it’s not a prerequisite that he has tats or not, or a beard or not, or burly muscles or not, or red hair or not, as examples.”

I drag a hand through my hair, unable to resist flirting with her, even now. “Light brown hair. That’d do the trick nicely, though?”

She stretches a hand across the Formica table and rubs my hair. “Yes, and warm hazel eyes, and a nice square jaw, and strong arms, and a flat belly,” she says, letting go, and my eyes widen at the litany of compliments while my body enjoys the got-her-to-cop-a-feel moment.

“Perhaps you should write my PlentyOfFish profile.” I pretend to tap on a keyboard. “Type: Ridiculously handsome, chiseled jaw, eyes that melt a woman, brilliant wit, and as a bonus, great in bed.”

She laughs. “Well, now that you mentioned the bonus features . . .”

I point at myself. “Just being honest and laying out all the key features of this type of car.”

“I appreciate your frankness about the vehicles on the lot, Chase,” she says, deadpan. Then she adds, “And yes, if I do have a type, ideally he’s smart, funny, kind to animals, and treats women well.”

“Also, he should be able to handle peanuts, right? Incidentally, I happen to love them.”

She laughs. “Peanut aficionado is optional. Walnut lover is better, though. If he loves pecans, then we’re talking the real deal.”

“So mixed nuts it is. Duly noted.” I mime making a check mark.

“Plus, bonus points for not being a liar,” she says, taking her time on that last one as a waitress strides by, balancing three plates of scrambled eggs and bacon.

I grab my coffee and take a thirsty gulp. When I set it down, I ask, “So what’s the story there? Wyatt mentioned some guy you dated.”

She sighs, looks at the table, then back up. “It’s stupid.”

I slide my hand across the table and rest it on top of hers. “It’s not stupid.”

She shakes her head. “It’s just . . . you put yourself out there, and someone isn’t who he seems. Do you know what I mean?”

Do I ever.

“Yes.”

“And this guy, Damien, was like that. I met him on an online site, and we just really hit it off. We connected on everything. Same sense of humor, same love of books. He even liked Scrabble.”

A rocket-fueled blast of jealousy rolls through me. That’s our thing. I grit my teeth as she talks.

“We had the best time chatting online. We’d chat until the wee hours of the morning about anything and everything. He changed his status to exploring a new relationship. And we went out a couple of times. They were all these seemingly perfect, idyllic dates,” she says, and I hate Damien already with a bone-deep loathing. “We went to a piano bar, and even when he heard me sing under my breath, he didn’t make fun of me.” She flashes a weary smile. “And you know what an awful singer I am.”

“Just mouth the words,” I whisper.

Her smile grows bigger. “He doesn’t know about that. You’re the only one privy to that horror story.”

During one of our college breaks at her house, while the two of us were hanging out in the living room, stretched out on her parents’ couch, her feet slung over my thighs, I’d asked her for her most embarrassing moment.

“Hands down. Second grade. Music class.”

My ears perked. “Tell me.”

“Each student had to sing ‘Scotland’s Burning’ in front of the group, and when it was my turn, I walked into the middle of the circle, opened my mouth and sang, ‘Scotland’s burning, Scotland’s burning, look out, look out.’ And I was sure I sounded fine. Until the teacher covered her ears.”

“Ouch.”

“The real ouch was when the music teacher said, ’Just mouth the words, child. Just mouth the words.’”