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Still, I’m sitting here, eating and alone. And because of Meredith Porter and her obsessive need to ride a bike and tell me exactly what she thinks every second we’re together, I’m wondering for the first time in years about whatI want. Is that what her list is, things she wants in life? She said it’s stuff she’s never done, but it must be things she wants too.
I stir my meatless spaghetti—not loving it, then turn my phone over, screen side up. I huff out a breath and pick up my cell, typing before thinking.
Me:Can you tell me what the list represents? Things you’ve never done and… ???
Meredith:I can. How much are you willing to pay?
Before I can respond Meredith has sent another message.
Meredith:See? I am funny!
Me:Hilarious.
Meredith:I know.
And then, I’m pretty sure some extrovert like Cooper possesses my fingers because I type:
Me:Could you go for some ice cream? I’m buying.
I’m very tempted to add—but it’s not a date. I don’t because my mother taught me to have manners, and even I have to admit that sounds pretty rude.
Meredith:Are we taking the tandem?
Me:No. It’s back at the shop.
Meredith:Then I’m out.
Meredith:Kidding again! Can you pick me up though? I’d ride my bike, but my teacher stinks.
Me:You’re a regular standup comedian.
Meredith:Hey! That’s on the list!
I don’t know what I’m doing—except sitting here alone when I don’t want to be. It’s not like I have zero friends though. Owen and Miles both live in town. So do Coco and Jude.
So why am I textingMeredith?
I don’t have an answer to my question.
So, I shove the thought away and keep writing Meredith instead.
Me:Pick you up in ten.
Twenty minutes later I sit across from Meredith—orange dress, white Keds—as she tries three different types of froyo. She couldn’t decide, and finally, I ordered all of her pesky choices.
“Try this one,” she tells me, passing over the green pistachio.
“Nuts do not belong in a dessert.”
“Uncle Bob would say—oh,you’re one of those.” She hands me a clean spoon. “In this case, I’d have to agree with him. You need to try it.”
I do. And it isn’t half bad. But I still prefer my cookies ‘n’ cream. “How’s the orange cream?”
“Eight out of ten. It’s very good.”
“And the praline?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she pushes the white container my way and hands me another unused spoon. “Tell me why you didn’t go to college.”
