4

4

Newton

Nowadays, a dollar won't take you very far at the grocery store—or, for that matter, anywhere else. Anything I could afford was either too small, too insubstantial, or just too strange to make a meal on its own. After all, there's only so much instant mashed potato a guy can take.

I knew I should just grab a bottle of hot sauce and resign myself to another week of lentils, but even the hot sauce was out of my price range. Ramen, too, was nowhere near the bargain it had been a few years ago—though that was probably for the best. In undergrad, I'd eaten enough cheap ramen for a lifetime.

I was just about to admit defeat and head home with a yogurt or a can of mixed veg when a flash of orange caught my eye.

The clearance shelf!

I always love a bargain—what self-respecting math nerd doesn't?—but today's need went far beyond the dopamine hit I'd get from being thrifty. And where the utter randomness of the things I typically needed to sort through was usually amusing, I took no pleasure in it now. Sunscreen. Baby aspirin. Dented cans of oysters. Each discovery was worse than the last.

It seemed that even the clearance rack couldn't save me.

But as I turned back toward the "ethnic" aisle to face the ramen, I spied a can behind a phalanx of dinosaur-shaped fruit gummies that I didn't recognize. The can bore a subtly patterned label in shades of blue, purple and green. I delved in and coaxed it toward the front. It was heavy, with no dents, dings or rust. And as I spun it around to see what it actually contained, I found only a single word.

Happiness.

I kept turning, figuring that eventually, I'd come to an ingredient list. But other than the swirly, undulating design, there was nothing but that one word, Happiness , and a barcode covered by a contrasting orange markdown sticker.

Curious, I picked up the can. It was substantial. I gave it a shake, expecting a slosh, or maybe a rattle, to offer some clue as to what might be in it. But despite the weight of the thing, there was no movement inside. It felt solid, which only puzzled me more.

I tried to imagine what might take up all the space without any room for gurgle or slide, but the only thing I came up with was cranberry sauce—the type that slides right out shaped exactly like its container, right down to the ridges. But the label seemed too exotic for something as mundane as that. Maybe there was something foreign inside, some delicacy from an exotic locale—a place that didn't regulate ingredient lists. Which meant it could be full of seaweed and squid and chilis hot enough to burn off your face.

Or maybe it was something entirely inedible, like dog food.

Or even shortening.

The responsible thing to do would be to grab whatever ramen I could afford and look into upgrading my meal plan. But as I raised the can to put it back on the clearance shelf, the ornate lettering tickled my imagination— Happiness —and I asked myself whether or not the ramen plan would actually make me happy.

As much as I might like to think I took pleasure in denying myself now for the chance of a stable future…I knew that if I took the safe route, I'd never stop wondering what the heck was in that can. Feeling adventurous—maybe even a bit naughty—I tucked the can into the crook of my arm and headed for checkout.

There was just one register open, with a bored teenage cashier staring at her phone, and a chunky male bagger gazing hopefully in her direction. I instinctively veered toward the self-check to avoid the gravitational pull of their one-sided relationship. Attraction is like the scrupulously fair chore board hanging on my kitchen wall. It should be possible to find someone out there who's into you just as much as you're into them. There are eight billion people on the planet, after all. Statistically, there's bound to be plenty of someones who'd make a great match.

Unfortunately, like the chore board, attraction is only fair in theory—and the type of guys I always attracted bored me to tears. As for me, I found it easier to cram in a few more credits and spend all my time studying than to endure yet another tedious Friday night on yet another lackluster date.

I was so focused on not-looking at the two cashiers that I didn't notice the one hurtling toward the self-check until we practically collided.

He was all angles, from his jawline to his jutting hipbone, so sharp it was a wonder I didn't impale myself on him as he skidded to a stop….

Though the more I examined that notion, the more appealing it was.

But that was ridiculous. Even in his polyester Val-U-Mart vest, this guy was way out of my league. A constellation of small silver ear studs winked from both ears and tattoos peeked from his collar. And if that wasn't enough to convince me I didn't stand a chance, the blue hair sure did.

He locked eyes with me, barring my way to the self-check. He held eye contact just a beat too long, then said, "Welcome to Val-U-Mart. Where ‘U' come first."

And then he smiled.

An ironic smile? Maybe not, since it went all the way to his eyes, which were a blue just a few shades lighter than his hair. His teeth were straight, all but one: an eyetooth was at a cocky angle to the rest. Just like him.

Everything there was to take in, and I go and fall for his tooth ?

I was such a goner.

When I came up with absolutely no reply, he added, "Or if we both time it right, maybe we'll finish together. Haha, just kidding. That is, unless you wanted to give it a shot."

What was he…?

U come first.

Oh.

Ohhh.

Awash in a sudden and all-encompassing shyness, I waved the can vaguely at the self-check and mumbled, "No, that's okay, I was gonna—"

"Forget about the robot cashiers. I'm already checking you out. Might as well finish the job on register three."

"You don't have to—"

"I insist." He plucked the can neatly from my grasp. I was so bowled over by the fact that he was lavishing his attention on me that I couldn't possibly resist. Then, he glanced down at the can and then did a double-take. "Seriously? Of everything in the entire freaking store, you chose this ?"

"Why is that so hard to believe?"

"Because I marked it down myself not ten minutes ago. What is it, anyhow?"

"I'm not exactly sure."

"A risk-taker." He flashed another smile—that tooth . "I like it." He turned on his heel and strode over to the checkout, rangy and broad-shouldered beneath his ill-fitting Val-U-Mart vest. He wasn't handsome, not in the traditional sense. Too sharp, too extreme. But I couldn't take my eyes off him.

As he flipped on the light and glided into place behind the register, I narrowly avoided walking into the magazine rack. The upside-down name tag on his vest read Angus . "Is that really your name?" I asked, because he seemed like the sort of guy who'd just wear a random name tag for kicks.

"A grade-A prime moniker if ever there was one." An awkward pause, followed by, "And here's where you tell me yours."

"Newton."

The usual follow-up question was whether I'd been named after a fig bar. But instead, he said, "Newton, huh? As in, apple-falls-from-the-tree-and-hits-you-on-the-head, probably-never-happened, but-makes-a-good-gravity-story?"

I blinked. "Yeah."

"Coolness. Well, Sir Isaac, now that that's settled, I get off at six." The corner of his mouth quirked as if to challenge me to parry with a getting-off quip of my own.

The sheer notion of even attempting flirty repartee left me mortified. No wonder my last date ended in the world's most tedious recount of a chess match.

As I stood there groping for a reply, Angus's grin faltered. But he rallied enough to lean over the card reader and confide, "This is the part where either we make plans, or you tell me to get lost because you're spoken for...or straight."

"I'm single," I managed. "And I'm definitely not straight."

His grin returned, full-force, as he subjected me to a leisurely scrutiny. I felt it as a tangible thing, this approval he was lavishing on me, this inexplicable attraction . And I knew I was entirely out of my depth. Every fiber of my being was begging me to run out that door and never look back. And then a dangerous thought fleeted past: what if I saw it through?

Still ogling me, Angus swiped the orange barcode across the scanner and the 99￠ price appeared on the display.

I pulled out my dollar—my pathetic single dollar—and my heart sank. I wasn't even capable of budgeting a meal plan. Me, a purported mathematician. If I couldn't handle simple arithmetic, how could I ever do something so far out of my comfort zone and hook up with the blue-haired cashier with the quick wit and the alluring, bad-boy grin?

"So…" he said playfully as he handed over my purchase, and my change. One measly penny. Which he pressed into my hand with a deliberation that practically scalded my palm. "Dinner?"

Yes , my heart yearned to say.

But of course I couldn't accept. I couldn't afford dinner. Financially, or emotionally. "I'm sorry," I told him, not meeting his eyes. Clutching the can to my chest, I bolted out the door.