Fundamental Differences

He picked her up in his white Mustang, the one he was in major debt for. She got in, made smaller by the huge clunky boots she was wearing and the button-down she’d stolen from her dad.

“It’s so good to see you,” they both said, and meant it, and hugged across the center console. The late August sun made everything blurry and gold.

They drove to Denny’s and slid into a booth, ordered coffee and nothing else. They talked about everything that had happened since they’d last seen each other, people they’d been with and times they’d called in to work just because they felt sad. She’d recently started a habit calendar, where she tracked the days she drank the correct amount of water. He’d recently experienced what his therapist called a “manic episode” -- driving to Galveston in the middle of the night, getting drunk on the beach, and falling asleep on the sand surrounded by empty bottles, the incoming tide licking his toes.

“What’d your therapist say about that ?” she asked, setting down her mug with a clunk on the plastic table.

“She upped my dosage,” he said. “Also, did you know there’s medicine you can take for binge drinking?”

Despite what her therapist called their “fundamental differences,” the two had a similar spirit about them. Anyone passing by their table at Denny’s could tell. Maybe it was how they spoke, always a little too loudly and laughing too much, or maybe it was how they both took their coffee with just one creamer. As they talked, they both leaned forward onto their elbows, mirroring each other without meaning to.

After about three coffees each, they stood facing each other in the parking lot, humidity settling on their skin.

“I love you, dude,” he said, as if suddenly remembering it, “not in a romantic way, of course.”

She laughed.

It had been a weird summer. At times, they had both been obsessed with the other. At times, they had both been indifferent. They had kissed and slept together and even held hands once but never made any serious attempt to either date or stop talking. She just wanted to know his opinion on things like the best type of waffle and whether socialism could win, and he wanted hers too, always. He was moving to New York City in the fall, and she was starting a job at Texas Instruments, the calculator company.

They had already promised to stay in touch. But she was going to miss him.

“I love you too,” she said, “in a chill way.”

They hugged and got in the car and he drove her home. They kept talking the whole ride, too loudly, over too-loud music. She brushed a piece of hair out of her eyes and he did the same at the same time, mirroring her as always, without noticing.

Kara Killinger lives in San Antonio, Texas. She makes The Telescope Podcast, a space for young writers to share their work.