Page 3 of The Trade Up

At least I can tell he’s watched multiple series. Let’s go for something a little more challenging. “Alright,” I say, thinking up the most obscure trivia I can remember, “what is General Order 7?”

He stands up straight, and suddenly he’s towering over me. He has to be over six feet tall, but I don’t feel threatened by the way he looms so large, like I sometimes felt around my ex. Somehow, Star Trek Guy reminds me more of a gentle giant.

He tucks his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, and says, “No Federation starship may visit Talos IV. That’s according to Captain Pike, who despite being burnt to a crisp in The Original Series, has the best hair ever in Strange New World.”

I can’t hold in the laugh, because damned if he’s not right. Anson Mount, who plays Captain Pike in Strange New World, has hair that’s spawned its own fan club within the Star Trek fandom.

“I guess you really are a Star Trek nerd,” I say as I print out the check for his table and slip it into the bill presenter, wishing that this knowledge made him less attractive instead of more. “My uncle, who introduced me to the show, always said it was for smart people. So congrats, I guess you’re smart.”

He laughs. “I don’t know about that. But I am fascinated by science, astronomy, and the concept of space travel.”

Probably not as fascinated as I am by it,I almost say. But I doubt he’s over here chatting me up late at night because he’s interested in hearing about my graduate school plans.

Flirting with a girl because you think she’s cute and you’re both into Star Trek is one thing. Learning that she’s going to get a doctorate in aerospace engineering so she can work on emerging space technology is another. And besides, I don’t know for sure yet that it’s going to happen for next semester, so I don’t want to jinx myself by telling him.

I glance at the way BOSTON is written across the back of his hat, sitting right along his forehead, and I recognize the blue and white color scheme of the block lettering. I nod my chin toward his hat. “So, you’re a hockey fan?”

“You could say that,” he says.

“Are the Boston Rebels your favorite team?”

“They are now. I grew up as a Toronto fan.”

“Why’d you switch allegiances?”

His eyebrows dip as he appears to consider the questions. “A lot of reasons, I guess. Are you a hockey fan?”

“I didn’t grow up with hockey,” I say, “But I’ve watched some games?—”

“Order up for six!” Jefferson, one of our line cooks, calls from behind me.

“Gotta go do my job,” I say, relieved to be escaping the conversation before having to admit that the main reason I started following hockey was that my ex, Colby, plays for Seattle. I stack the take-out container with the cake on top of the bill presenter and hand them over to him. “Here you go.”

I turn and grab the two plates for table 3, ignoring the way they burn the tips of my fingers. And then I walk away, pretending like I can’t feel his eyes as they track my every movement.

I have no business flirting with a cute guy in my diner. I just got out of a toxic relationship with a pro hockey player who carried himself with the same air of confidence. Even if this guy does seem more emotionally stable than my ex-boyfriend, and he appears at least as interested in my brain as he is in my body, he could still turn out to be like Colby in the end.

I drop the plates off for the couple at table 6 and then glance over at table 3 where the four guys sit as I head back toward the kitchen.

That pull of attraction to Star Trek Guy, and my inability to take my eyes off him, have me almost running face first into the swinging door when I fail to put my hand out as soon as I should, but luckily I slip into the back without causing a scene.

I pull out my phone and bring up my email, hoping to see a new message from the chair of the AeroAstro graduate program at MIT.

“Stop checking your damn email,” Jefferson calls out when he sees me scrutinizing my phone.

“I can’t help it. I need to know if I got the funding.”

“It’s only December 14th,” he says. “You said they’d let you know by the 16th.”

I glance around at the string of multicolored outdoor lights hanging around the top perimeter of our kitchen. They’re up year round, but they feel particularly festive as we approach Christmas—they’re big and gaudy and feel exactly like the type of lights someone would string along their roofline.

“Right,” I say. “ByDecember 16th, so it could be sooner.”

I was supposed to start my PhD program a few months ago, but when my uncle got sick last spring, someone had to take care of him and help run the diner. So I did what I needed to do for the man who took over raising me when my parents died—I deferred my enrollment so I could be there for him like he’s always been there for me.

It meant they offered my funding to another student, but I don’t regret it.

Since I can’t take on the debt that would come with this PhD, I need to wait to start the program the next time a fully-funded research opportunity presents itself. The head of the department told me there might be another research grant opening up in the spring, and if it comes through, it means I’m moving across the country in a month.

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