“What do you mean?”
“Just because you have a boyfriend doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”
She fusses with an errant thread on her apron. “I don’t need any more friends.”
“Okaay,” I draw out. “Well, maybe I do. Are you going to turn away somebody who’s in desperate need of a friend?”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “I think you have plenty of friends.”
“How do you know?”
“I can just tell,” she says.
“Well, I think I need more. Specifically you.”
“We can’t be friends.” She places her hands on her hips and takes a step back, grabbing a plastic cup from the stack beside her.
“Why not?”
“Well, first of all, we have nothing in common.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
She huffs out a breath. “Trust me. I know.”
I study her for a second, watching the way she won’t quite meet my eyes. The way her fingers grip that plastic cup a little too tight. There’s more to this than just having nothing in common. There’s something she’s not saying.
“All right, I have an idea,” I say. “How about this? Maybe we’re not compatible as friends, but maybe we are. The only way to know is to get to know each other.”
“Oh, I can’t—I can’t hang out with you,” she stutters, terror flashing across her face.
“No, I’m not suggesting that. I’m just saying… when I come in for coffee every day, I’ll ask you one question. And you can ask me one question. And through these questions, we can decide if we’re compatible.”
“A question a day,” she repeats quietly, hesitating. “That couldn’t hurt.”
“Exactly my point,” I say. “One question a day isn’t going to hurt anybody. It’s innocent. Friendly.”
She chews on her bottom lip, considering. For a second, I think she’s going to say no. That she’s going to shut this down completely and tell me to stop coming in. But then something shifts in her expression. Something soft. Almost hopeful.
“Okay,” she says finally, setting the plastic cup on the counter beside the cooled pitcher of coffee and turning back to face me. “What’s your question?”
Relief washes through me, more than it probably should. “We’re going to start with something super deep.” Hands on the counter, I lean in.
Her eyes widen.
I take a moment and pull in a deep breath. “What is your favorite animal?”
She blinks twice, confusion flickering across her face before relief floods in. “My favorite animal? Um… a pig.”
“A pig?” I huff out a laugh.
“Yeah,” she says sheepishly. “They’re cute.”
“Your favorite animal is a pig?”
“Yes. My favorite animal is a pig,” she says, this time with more authority.
“Why?”
