The Longest Ride

that.”

“No, don’t… because even though she says that, I’m not sure it’s true. I think she wants something more real, but she doesn’t know how to find a guy who feels the same way. In college, there aren’t that many guys like that, and why would there be? When girls just give it away for nothing? I mean, I can understand why you’d sleep with someone if you love them, but if you barely know them? What’s the point? It just cheapens it.”

She fell silent, realizing that he was the first person she’d ever admitted all this to. Which was strange. Wasn’t it?

Luke toyed with his chopsticks, picking at the rough edges where he had broken them apart, taking his time to consider it. Then, leaning into the lamplight, he said, “Sounds kind of mature, if you ask me.”

She raised the menu, a bit embarrassed by that. “Just so you know, you don’t have to get sushi if you don’t want that. They have chicken and beef teriyaki, too.”

Luke studied his own menu. “What are you going to have?”

“Sushi,” she answered.

“Where did you learn to like sushi?”

“In high school,” she said. “One of my best friends was Japanese, and she kept telling me there was this great place in Edgewater where she went when she was homesick for good Japanese food. You can only eat at the deli so many times before you start to crave something new, so I went with her one day, and I ended up loving it. So sometimes, when we were studying, we’d get in her car and drive to Edgewater – just this little nondescript place. But we became regulars. And since then, I get these cravings for it every now and then. Like tonight.”

“I get it,” he agreed. “In high school, when I was competing in 4-H, I’d go to the state fair and I always had to have a fried Twinkie.”

She stared at him. “You’re comparing sushi to fried Twinkies?”

“Have you ever had a fried Twinkie?”

“It sounds disgusting.”

“Yeah, well, until you try one, you’re not allowed to comment. They’re good. Eat too many and you’ll probably have a heart attack, but every now and then, there’s nothing like it. Way better than fried Oreos.”

“Fried Oreos ?”

“If you’re trying to find a suggestion for your family deli, like I said, I’d go with the fried Twinkie.”

At first, she couldn’t formulate any response at all. Then, with a serious tone: “I don’t think anyone in the Northeast would eat such a thing.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “It could be the next big thing up there – people lining up all day long.”

With a tiny shake of her head, she turned to the menu again. “So 4-H, huh?”

“I started when I was a kid. Pigs.”

“What is it, exactly? I mean, I’ve heard about it, but I don’t know what it is.”

“It’s supposed to be about citizenship and responsibility and all that stuff. But when it comes to competing, it’s more about learning how to choose a good pig when it’s little. You check out its parents if you can or pictures or whatever, then you try to pick the one that you think has a chance to be a good show pig. You want a firm pig with a lot of muscle and not too much fat and no blemishes. And then, basically, you raise it for about a year. You feed it and care for it; in a way, they almost become like pets.”

“Let me guess. You named all of them Pig.”

“Actually, no. My first one was named Edith, the second one Fred, the third one was Maggie. I can go down the list if you’d like.”

“How many were there? Over the years?”

He drummed his fingers on the table. “Nine, I think. I started when I was in the third grade and I did it until junior year in high school.”

“And then, when they’re grown, where do you compete?”

“At the state fair. The judges look them over and then you find out if you won.”

“And if you win?”

“You get a ribbon. But win or lose, you still end up selling the pig,” he said.

“What happens to the pig?”

“The same thing that usually happens to pigs,” he answered. “They’re sent to the slaughterhouse.”

She blinked. “You mean you raise it from when it’s little, you name it, you care for it for a year, and then you sell it so it can be killed?”

He looked at her, his expression curious. “What else would you do with a pig?”

She was dumbfounded, unable to respond. Finally, she shook her head. “I just want you to know that I have never, ever met anyone like you before.”

“I