How Zoe Made Her Dreams (Mostly) Come Tr - By Sarah Strohmeyer Page 0,5

true when it came to chocolate, ice cream, and pizza, three of the four essential food groups, but I didn’t feel like footnoting.

“Then we’ll have to stick together,” he said.

“One in two-fu.” Inwardly I groaned.

He winced. “That was awful.”

“Thank you.” I bowed. “I’m here all summer.” We grinned at each other, and then he said, “Bye,” and I said, “See ya.”

Not too bad for a shut-in, I thought, giving myself a mental pat on the back.

“Vegan, huh?” The dark-haired guy who’d been behind us in the orientation line now stood on the other side of the fruit bowl, picking out all the watermelon. The rest of his plate was filled with various meat products.

I really didn’t want to get into “the vegan thing” with someone I didn’t know, so I gave him my standard line. “It’s a personal choice.”

“I get that. I just don’t know why.” He studied his watermelon supply and went for a few more. “I mean, I understand vegetarianism. Don’t want to kill animals. Sure. But vegan makes no sense. I can’t really see the harm in milking a cow or eating eggs that won’t ever grow up to be chickens.”

“If you really want to know, I’ll tell you,” I said, trying not to get heated, because he’d been nice to me with the orientation lady and everything.

He put down the tongs. “I really want to know.”

“Okay, well, for starters, the whole poultry industry is evil. Do you know how those chickens live? Cooped up in the same cage their entire lives, not getting out once. It’s criminal.”

He boldly bit into a sausage, not even pausing to consider how I might have been offended. “Have you ever been around chickens?”

“Have you . . .” I checked his name tag. “Ian?”

“My dad has ’em on his ranch in Colorado. Man, do they smell.” He wrinkled his nose. “And talk about nasty personalities. They’ll peck each other to death, you know. They’re cannibals. Swear to god, cannibal chickens. Sounds like a Gary Larson cartoon, but it’s true.”

“No, it’s not.” Sheesh. The pro-poultry propaganda some people believe.

He took me by the arm and moved me outside, since, apparently, we were hogging the fruit table. “If we were allowed to go online here, I’d tell you to search Wikipedia for chickens plus cannibals so you could verify.”

“Wikipedia’s your source?” That was laughable. “Oh, please. The poultry industry probably paid big money to get chicken cannibals on there. It’s an urban myth.”

He grinned and his eyes crinkled. All of a sudden he looked really familiar—the mop of black hair, the prominent jaw, the constant half smile—though I was almost positive I’d never met him before. “Why would the poultry industry spread a myth that chickens were cannibals?” he asked.

“So you wouldn’t feel bad eating their eggs.”

“I wouldn’t feel bad eating their eggs if chickens were the sweetest things on earth. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because they’re . . . chickens!” He threw up an arm. “And where I’m from in Texas, chickens are a vegetable.”

Even I, the die-hard semi-vegan, had to laugh. “I thought you were from Colorado.”

“My dad’s in Colorado. My mom’s in Texas.” Having finished his sausage, he forked a piece of watermelon while I had yet to take a bite of my own food due to certain insecurities about masticating near guys. “Long, complicated, and, ultimately, boring story.”

A girl who’d been hanging in our periphery stepped forward all goo-goo-eyed. “Hi, Ian,” she said softly. She was very feminine in a princessy way—wavy, long, auburn hair, big green eyes, perfect figure. The whole girly, curvy enchilada.

“Hi, Miranda. You feeling better?” To me, he explained, “We came in on the same flight from Dallas.” And he undulated his hand to indicate crazy turbulence.

“Thanks for not telling everyone about . . .” She reddened, unable to finish whatever it was she wanted kept secret. That she got sick? Was doing two-to-ten in Texas? That they’d made out?

Ian mimed a zipper across his lip. “What happens at thirty-five thousand feet stays at thirty-five thousand feet.”

“Thanks,” she said. “You want to eat with us?”

He hesitated, possibly out of courtesy to me, so I said, “My cousin Jess is waiting. Gotta go,” and started to leave.

Ian reached for my hand, giving it a firm, warm shake with dazzling eye contact. “Sorry if it seemed like I was getting on your case, Zoe. I don’t care if you’re a vegan, but may I say, on behalf of the Texas Beef Council, that you should never trust a dude