Sharing Hannah

Right now I was on Stewart Avenue, making my way along the snow-choked sidewalk. I was almost at the address Trey had given me, on the westernmost edge of the Cornell campus. I didn’t see any housing — dorms or otherwise. Maybe he wanted to meet me before taking me in. Or maybe—

“Hey beautiful.”

I whirled and there he was, all six-foot four of him. He wore a long coat and a broad smile. Adorably, his hair was flopping into his eyes again.

“This your place?” I joked, gesturing around the frozen sidewalk. “You live in that snowbank over there, or—”

“You hungry?”

I nodded eagerly. “Famished.”

“That’s good news,” he said. “C’mon.”

He took me by the hand, and I could feel the tingles already. His touch was soft and warm. His big palm practically enveloping me, as he gently interlaced his fingers between mine.

Trey pulled me along, and I struggled to match his pace. We were moving further down the sidewalk. Away from the sprawling campus, rather than toward it.

“I thought you lived on the school grounds?”

“I do.”

“Then what are we…”

I stopped talking as I realized the sidewalk was getting crowded now. Up ahead, a group of young people were gathered around a white and red food truck. Steam bellowed from the top, as the most delicious aroma in the universe wafted over us.

“My God, what is that?”

“It’s the Hot Truck.”

“I… I can see that. But what’s it serving?”

“Heaven.”

I would’ve laughed, only he sounded too serious. And the smell! It was so good, so rich and delicious, it told me my date couldn’t be far off.

“You’re gonna want to order a half-sui,” said Trey.

I shook my head. “You don’t seem to understand,” I said. “I’m hungry. Why wouldn’t I want the full one?”

“Because ‘sui’ is short for ‘suicide’.”

“So?”

“Trust me. You’ll see.”

We took our place in line, huddling there out in the cold. For the next five minutes I shivered and salivated, identifying the individual elements of the Food Truck’s hot sub sandwiches. Sauce. Mushrooms. Pepperoni. Mozzarella. All of it, served on an entire load of garlic French Bread.

“Here, take this.”

Before I could protest he was spreading his coat over my shoulders, which would’ve been difficult considering I was already wearing a thick jacket. But this was no ordinary coat, and Trey didn’t have ordinary shoulders. It enveloped me perfectly in a welcome layer of all-new warmth.

“Thanks,” I said genuinely. “That was sweet, but you really didn’t have to—”

He held up an apologetic finger and turned away to approach the food truck’s main window. Once there, Trey ordered for the both of us. I marveled as he returned with two half-sui’s. Each steaming sandwich was as long as my forearm, and twice as thick.

“Go slow,” he warned.

My date carefully unwrapped the tip of my sandwich before handing it over. Inhaling a long whiff of the fragrant steam, I dug in for a very unladylike first bite.