Chapter Eight. Equilibrium #2
She met his gaze, the brown of his irises the same shade as her favorite dark roast. Quickly averting her eyes, she replied, “Don’t be stupid. It was a pain in the ass to clean.”
“Okay. Then how about I buy a new blender that’s easy to clean?”
“Please don’t. I kinda like the old blender. It’s still kicking.”
He brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, grinning. “Just like us.”
With a deep breath, she stepped away from him. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I was excited to make breakfast but … your shirt, and the blender, and the smells … it set me off.”
“Never apologize for feeling things.” He stared down at her, intently studying her, as if trying to figure out if she was truly okay. Satisfied by the smile she gave him, he motioned to the cooling plates. “Now that you’re smiling, how about we eat the masterpiece you put together?”
She laughed, taking a seat at the kitchen island. “It’s not a masterpiece. I had to use feta.”
“Feta?” he cried, joining her. “How awful. Except we both love feta.”
“Yes, we do, but on this … it’s not ideal. It’s like using cheddar on pizza.”
“I dunno. I’d still eat it.”
“Because you’d eat anything.”
Proving her point, Danny dug in, groaning with every bite he took. “These are insane,” he said. “You’re spoiling me.”
“It’s the least I could do after everything you’re doing for me.” As he swallowed an enthusiastic forkful, her gaze dropped to the mustang on his shirt. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“What did you want to be when you were little?”
He set the fork down, nose crinkling as he considered the question.
“At eight, probably a baseball player. At eighteen, I didn’t know.
Hell, I still didn’t know when I walked across the stage.
I only majored in business because my parents said to.
” His shrug melted into an easygoing smile.
“I think I know the answer, but what about you?”
“I always wanted to be a writer.” She smoothed her jeans, her palms damp. “But I knew it wasn’t realistic. So, at eighteen, I also didn’t know what I wanted to do. I entered Adams as Undecided. Do you remember that?”
“I do.”
“My adviser told me to take microeconomics since it was a prerequisite for so many majors, and thankfully I did, because I met you all. At the end of our first semester, I settled on business because it seemed … practical. But I knew I was never going into finance or accounting or anything like that. Marketing was where I could be creative so I just kinda … settled into it.” Gnawing at her lip, she whispered, “I guess I’ve never had any real career goals.
Just … doing something that would pay off my loans and not make me go gray before fifty. ”
“Well, now’s your chance to make real goals.” He resumed eating, and added, “Talk about a walk down memory lane. Did you know I was wait-listed at Adams?”
Cam gasped, nearly toppling off her stool as she faced him. “What? No, I didn’t know that!”
Danny’s attendance was a mystery in their little group, nobody willing to ask exactly how he’d landed at the prestigious private university.
Adams found a niche as a cross between a liberal arts college and an Ivy League alternative, making it a choice for the rejected prep school kids and the overachieving high schoolers who wanted something more rigorous than a state school.
He was neither, yet he was as much an Adams Mustang as she was.
“Yup. I only applied to two schools: URI and Adams because it was my dad’s alma mater. Although nobody thought I’d get into Adams—I had a great SAT score and decent grades, but I clearly wasn’t their target student.”
She gripped the stool, physically restraining herself from asking for his SAT score.
Why was that still a compulsion at twenty-five?
“I got into URI and was wait-listed at Adams,” he continued, “and right before I put my enrollment deposit down, I realized I’d been living in Rhode Island my entire life.
This state is thirty-seven miles wide. I needed to go somewhere else, even if only for four years.
So, I wrote the Adams admissions office a letter reiterating my interest. To my surprise, I got off the wait-list and … now, you’re having breakfast with me.”
“You … wrote them a letter?”
“That surprise you?”
“Yes!”
Danny grinned. “I’m full of surprises, Camille.”
“Apparently! Can I ask another question?”
“Sure. Keep them rolling.”
“Did you … like college?”
He laughed. “Did I ever give the impression I was miserable? I had a fucking great time. We all did.”
“I know but … I never actually remember you talking about enjoying any of your classes.”
“I never liked school,” he replied, “but I do like learning. If college was about writing papers, and taking exams, and stuffing us into lecture halls like sardines, then no, I didn’t like it.
But if college was about experiencing shit, and meeting my best friends, then yeah, it was the highlight of my life.
” He winked. “So far, that is.” After another bite, he added, “College introduced me to your chilaquiles and that alone made it worth the cost of admission. Sure as hell makes me miss Group Breakfast.”
Aka their tradition starting sophomore year, when most Sundays, they’d all gather for breakfast in Morgan and Cam’s apartment. Usually, the meals were casual affairs: donuts from down the street, scrambled eggs and bacon, the entire cereal aisle set up like a buffet.
But sometimes, they went all out. Cory had French toast he perfected as a child, Morgan had a crepe recipe she was obsessed with, and on ambitious mornings, Cam would make her father’s chilaquiles, no corners cut.
Those Sundays were some of her favorite memories of college.
Danny groaned, playing the kitchen island like a drum. “What a time! Everyone was so creative. They never lived up to my contributions, but we had some highlights. Remember Drew’s waffles?”
Cam nearly choked from laughing so hard. “His waffle maker caught fire—”
“—the first time!”
“—and your contributions,” she continued, “were usually bagels and lox.”
“Are you suggesting that’s not an elite breakfast?” he cried. “You’re minimizing the intricacies of making the perfect bagel. I had to bring schmear, capers, onions, tomatoes, cucumbers—”
“Danny,” she cut in, “I love bagels. You know that. But you never cooked.” She motioned to the dirty pots on the stove. “Toasting bagels doesn’t count.”
“You tell that to my mom. I don’t think she’d agree.”
“Well, your mom also doesn’t put soda in her brisket like my mom, so maybe I can’t trust her judgment.”
Danny threw his head back, laughing. “You’re gonna start an argument you won’t win.” He brought their dishes and Cam’s many pots to the sink. “I’ll wash up, take a quick shower, and then let’s hit town.” He grinned over his shoulder. “Oh, and thanks for breakfast, Milly.”
“It was nothing. But now I’m expecting your famous bagels and lox.”
“Say the word and it’s yours.”
“Sunday?”
“You got it.”